


Once

by TheFledglingDM



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gets a Little Hand-Wavy With the Timeline, Ishbal | Ishval, Maes Hughes Lives, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bc fuck canon, because i always forget things, but like it's gonna hurt, just implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 73,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFledglingDM/pseuds/TheFledglingDM
Summary: It was a longing like obsession, like madness, a yearning down to the bones.Once,he pleaded.Once,she prayed.Just once and I can move on._or - riza and roy's relationship over the years. covers childhood, ishval, the series, and post-promised day.
Relationships: Rebecca Catalina & Riza Hawkeye, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye & Team Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Team Mustang
Comments: 75
Kudos: 189





	1. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from childhood to post-ishval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, thank you for clicking! i am new to the fmab fandom after my first viewing of the series, and i am obsessed.

**i.**

Riza Hawkeye was off-limits.

In fact, she was so off-limits that referring to her by her given name, even in his head, made Roy feel like he was doing something he shouldn’t. Every time Master Hawkeye looked at him, studying his apprentice with eyes that always found something lacking, he had to fight to clear his mind.

(No one could read minds, Roy told himself, that secret still had not been discovered, and in any case, his Master was more interested in flame alchemy, but if he ever caught a glimpse of the inside of Roy’s head, if he ever saw the way Roy looked at his daughter when everyone’s back was turned -

He would roast Roy into a crisp.

Roy felt like he would deserve it.)

So they were _Miss Hawkeye_ and _Mister Mustang_. Polite and cool and distant and they could have starred in an etiquette book for children.

 _Thank you, Miss Hawkeye,_ Roy would say when she made enough tea for two, putting a cup in front of him. The flame in the fireplace grate made her hair shine, her eyes turn the color of honey, her skin bronze like gold. He would sip the tea that he knew was too hot to drink, scalding his tongue like it was penance, and return to his reading. 

_You ought to be more careful, Mister Mustang,_ she would say as she wrapped a bandage around his burned hand. He had thought he was ready to start in on the flame alchemy, but clearly -

He hissed in pain as Miss Hawkeye pulled the bandage a bit too tight. She quickly adjusted the binding.

“Sorry, Mister Mustang,” she said.

Roy swallowed. “It’s fine.” He glanced up to meet her gaze, smiling a bit to put her at ease. “It’s my own fault I got hurt.”

“I won’t argue there.”

Riza - _Miss Hawkeye, you fool, you dunce_ \- Miss Hawkeye’s eyes went wide and she clapped her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry, that was rude, it just slipped out -”

Roy laughed. It caught him by surprise, the sudden loud bark, the way it came from his stomach. Quickly he stopped it, clearing his throat. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. I appreciate your honesty.”

Miss Hawkeye generally kept quiet, preferring to fade into the background. Her father did not strike Roy as particularly warm or present. He cared more for his studies, his research, his alchemy and his solitude. As a result it was left to Miss Hawkeye to care for the house, keep it clean, keep them all fed and clothed. She did the shopping and cooking and Roy had taken to helping her with the dishes and tidying in the moments he wasn’t at Master Hawkeye’s beck and call. Which wasn’t often, but Roy hoped she understood what he was trying to do.

But when she did speak, during these small moments alone, she was honest and blunt and cut to the quick and he loved it.

Miss Hawkeye shrugged off his statement and returned to bandaging Roy’s hand. Her hands were small, her skin soft, her fingers light and quick and sure, her nails cropped short like her hair. They made quick work of the bandage, and all too soon she pulled away, standing up to put the materials away. He wanted to reach for her, wrap his fingers around her wrist, say - _what, what would you say? Thank you? I’m sorry for intruding on your life like this? Please tell me I’m not losing my mind and that you feel this, too?_

_Surely you must feel this, too._

Roy curled his fingers into a fist and focused on the pain, the way his skin stretched taut and rubbed against the bandages. He said nothing as he stood.

“Thank you,” he said to her, and he went upstairs to bed.

**ii.**

Riza had never considered herself someone who sought connection.

She was homeschooled by her mother and father (mostly her mother), then by books. She went into town to get their necessities, but that was about it. She skirted around the games of stickball and tag and hide-and-seek the other children played, ignored the way their eyes followed her quizzically as she passed by the schoolhouse.

She helped her father with his research and spoke to him when he remembered he still had one living relative. She taught herself to care for herself and her father and the house, about politics and history and chemistry and calculus and literature and alchemy (but that life path was soiled for her from the moment her father looked at his only child, the one he had asked to tattoo his research into her skin, and told her to ready the spare room, his latest apprentice would be arriving tomorrow).

She didn’t want to like this apprentice, didn’t seek a friend, except the boy who walked in behind her father was perhaps a year or two older than she was, tall, with black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes, and he smiled and bowed and introduced himself as Roy Mustang.

Riza did not seek connection, but she felt it anyway, and it wasn’t until he smiled at her and thanked her for dinner on that first night that it struck her, to her core, how deeply, miserably lonely she had been.

It wasn’t love, or lust, or even a crush, Riza thought, though it wasn’t as if she had much experience in that area. It was something less and more, an undercurrent that was stronger than deeper than friendship. If asked to recall, she couldn’t have even recounted any of their conversations. It wasn’t as if they stayed up all night speaking. Her longest times spent with him were during meals under the watchful gaze of her father, who spent more time quizzing and ripping into his apprentice than speaking to his daughter. On the nights the elder Hawkeye didn’t insist on carrying on with training after dinner and into the night - which were rare - _Mister Mustang_ would help her with the dishes.

(And if their fingers sometimes brushed when she handed him a plate, shivers climbing all the way up her arm and down her spine, then that was no one’s business but her own.)

Perhaps the fairy-tales Riza’s mother had read to her might have called it soul mates. It was meeting her father’s apprentice and feeling like she had known him forever. But life wasn’t a fairy tale, and however lonely little Riza may have been, Mister Roy Mustang was here to learn alchemy. Anything else was just incidental.

She reminded herself as much as she sat at the kitchen table late one night cleaning her guns. It was her favorite time of day: when she had the house to herself, her father in bed, his apprentice studying, the dog sitting on her feet (not at, _on_ , the spoiled beast), the fire casting a red light and warm glow over the pots and pans that hung from the walls.

A sound at the doorway caught her attention. She looked up sharply; the dog’s tail tapped once, lazily, on the stone floor before resuming its snooze.

Mister Mustang was standing in the doorway, wiping at tired eyes with the back of his hand. In his sleep clothes and bed-mussed hair, he looked for once like the boy he was. It was disarming, charming. She wanted to smile.

She didn’t. “Can’t sleep?”

“No,” He admitted. He had turned seventeen recently, and his voice was dropping to something throaty and gravely, and she felt the low timbre somewhere behind her breastbone. “May I join you, Miss Hawkeye?”

Riza didn’t speak and only indicated the free seat at the head of the table. As he dragged out the chair he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning my guns,” Riza said, as if it wasn’t obvious. “I find it soothing. The repetition.”

“Who taught you to shoot?” Mister Mustang asked.

“I did.”

“Really?” There was no disbelief or judgement in his tone, no mocking lilt of surprise. If Riza had trusted herself to look, she would have seen the way his eyes lit up and the way the fire turned his pale skin to ivory.

“Yes,” Riza said. She clipped the chamber back together, weighed it in her hands, pointed it at an imaginary target on the wall. “It wasn’t too difficult. You point and pull the trigger. If you don’t hit what you want, try again.”

“Sounds easier than alchemy,” Mister Mustang said. “Memorizing chemical reactions and compounds and the periodic table and atomic mass.”

“I know all those, too,” Riza said.

“Of course you do,” Mister Mustang said. She glanced at him, saw the small smile on his face. “Being raised by Master Hawkeye, I’m not surprised at all.”

The simple statement was warm, kind, familiar in a way they shouldn’t have been - two teenagers, alone at night, who had met less than a year ago. The alchemist's daughter and the alchemist’s apprentice. Riza schooled her face to remain carefully neutral.

His gaze fell to the table. His fingers drummed on the wood thoughtfully. “Would you mind...quizzing me, sometime?”

A pause. Riza bit her tongue, but the smile leaked through anyway. She slid the pieces of the shotgun towards him. “You clean, I’ll quiz.”

“Deal.”

(It was easy to be with him, too easy. She quizzed him on the periodic table and chemical formulas, reactions, compositions, and taught him to shoot and clean a gun. He helped her clean the library and hang up the laundry and patched up his own socks. He was kind and funny and a good shot and he listened to her, believed in her, shared his dreams and hopes and goals. He wanted to be a State Alchemist or join the military. He asked her what she wanted in life, and all she could think is she wanted to see something beyond the fences of this town.

She looks at him and _wants_ , and she doesn’t know what to do with that. She _wants_ but she doesn’t know what, doesn’t know what to do about this yawning chasm of emptiness that opened up when she first looked at his face.)

**iii.**

Roy stood next to Miss Hawkeye as her father - his master - dropped into the earth. It had rained the day before, and the mud stained her gloves as she threw her handful of dirt onto the casket. She didn’t shake or tremble or cry.

("He was sick for a long time," Miss Hawkeye had told him. "This has been coming."

"What are you going to do now?" Roy had asked.

Miss Hawkeye had only peered up at him, her amber eyes inscrutable, and hadn’t answered. But Roy had understood.)

There was nothing more to do or say. Roy packed his bags and prepared to move to Central City to enlist or take the State Alchemists’ Exam, whichever came first. Riza - _Miss Hawkeye, it’s been three years and you still can’t get her name right in your head_ \- was still sitting in the kitchen when he came downstairs with his belongings. She hadn’t changed out of her funeral clothes, a black dress shirt and skirt and gray blazer.

For the oddest moment, he had the thought that she would wear dress blues well.

“I’m heading out,” he said, as if it wasn’t obvious. His tongue felt heavy with all of the things he wasn’t saying, couldn’t say. “Your...father said I could see his research. I was hoping to review it on my way to the City.”

Riza peered up at him. Her eyes were dark and wide and slightly reddened. Had she been crying? Had he interrupted her grieving with his pestering and demands for her time?

“You can’t,” Miss Hawkeye said. Her voice was steady.

“I understand they’re very sensitive,” Roy assured her. “I wouldn’t do anything to endanger them, or let anyone who wasn’t supposed to see them get a hold of them -”

“You can’t,” Miss Hawkeye interrupted him, “Because they’re tattooed on my back.”

Roy stopped. His mouth worked, opening and closing, and he wondered if for the briefest moment her lips quirked into a small, sad, knowing smile. But it was gone between one flicker of the oil lamps and the next. A million thoughts and questions formed and answered themselves in his mind as he worked through the implications of what she had just said.

“Oh,” he said lamely. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yes, I doubt my father informed you of that much,” Miss Hawkeye said. She stood up, shrugging out of her blazer. “I don’t care about showing you. But…” She turned around, her back to him. “You ready?”

Roy’s mouth had gone dry. This - this was not where he had thought this conversation would go. Responses spun in his head - _What do you mean your father tattooed his notes on your back? Why? How? Did he do this, or did someone else? Did you get a choice in the matter? Are you really comfortable showing me this?_ \- but his thirst to know more, to learn the secrets of flame alchemy, stymied any of those questions.

“Yes,” he said.

Roy would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about the first time a woman undressed in front of him. Being sixteen, seventeen, then eighteen and living under the same roof as a very pretty girl, he also would have been lying if he said he hadn’t thought about that woman being _her_. But he hadn’t thought it would be like this, or for this reason. It was with _very_ mixed feelings that he watched her shoulders move under the shirt, the cloth going slack as she unbuttoned it with businesslike professionalism. The shirt slipped down, over slender shoulders, revealing the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, her father’s handwriting and diagrams covering the entire span of her back.

Roy stepped closer, eyes roving over the words - the scarlet ink seemed to dance on her skin in the low lamplight, yellow and orange light flickering over her back. Her father’s research jumped out at him, teaching from beyond the grave - _so, he splits the water in the air into its basic elements, hydrogen and oxygen, and you take a match, a lighter, and boom_. It was difficult alchemy with a simple, obvious solution, and Roy tried to focus on that and remain clinical.

It kept him from trailing his eyes over her skin. He wanted to - to _touch_ her, to run his hands down her back, over skin and the knots in her muscles and through her short hair, connect the freckles dotting her shoulders like constellations. His hands tingled with the phantom feeling of soft, silken skin.

 _What kind of lech are you?_ He asked himself, forcing his gaze away. _She says she believes in you for all your childish naivety and you barely have enough self-control not to jump her an hour after her father’s funeral. For God’s sake, the man is barely cold._

But he wanted to touch her, to hold her, to hug her goodbye, to brush her hair back and wipe away the tears she hadn’t shed.

 _Once,_ Roy thought, _just once, one touch and this will be over, I’ll be out of her life forever, I swear it._

But Roy had no right. He clenched his hands into fists. “I’ve seen everything.”

The notes were not encoded beyond the late Master Hawkeye’s standard shorthand. It would be impossible to interpret them if one wasn’t already deeply familiar with his research and notations, and then one would not be able to see this finished product without Miss Hawkeye baring herself to them.

It was much easier to keep research notes protected if their bearer was a living person. Roy had to swallow a vile wave of resentment and disgust targeted at his mentor.

Miss Hawkeye shrugged her shirt back up over her shoulders, turning around to face him. Roy caught a glimpse of a smooth stomach and pale pink bra before he stared very resolutely at the ceiling.

“Good luck, Mister Mustang,” she said.

Roy looked down at her, met her gaze, committing her to memory. Her blonde hair, her brown eyes tinged red, her straight, regal nose, the determined set of her mouth and chin. Her arms folded protectively over her rumpled shirt. Her face was calm, her expression carefully neutral. She’d be a shark at poker if she ever played.

He felt her studying him, carefully weighing all of her options before she spoke. No, perhaps not poker - chess, she would have made a formidable chess opponent. Distantly he mourned that he never thought to ask her to play.

Someone could write a novel from all of the things they didn’t say.

“Goodbye, Miss Hawkeye,” he said, and he left.

**iv.**

_Hello, Major Mustang. Do you still remember me?_

It was cliché to say, Riza had known, but she also truly wasn't sure if he would remember her. It had been over three years since they last saw each other, and they had not deigned to keep in touch. Her most reliable intelligence of him had been the military academy’s through-the-grapevine rumors of the Flame Alchemist, the war hero, who was taking the Ishvalan front by storm. Stories taken from a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin, who had mentioned the Flame Alchemist in passing while relating news from another squad.

Riza kept quiet when people brought up his confirmed kills, the numbers of usurpers he had put down.

 _I know it’s the only way to make a difference,_ he had said to her once, his voice echoing in her head through the years, _And I know I’ll never be happy if I don’t try to make this country a better place._

(She would never tell, but sometimes that voice of his came to her in dreams, on the nights she was loneliest, and whispered to her all the things she wanted to hear. It didn’t need to be _him_ , Roy Mustang, saying those things, but she’s not sure she would have minded if it was. Some days Riza wished she could have willed her legs to move on that final day and at least hugged him goodbye, opened her mouth and told him not to die out there).

Riza wanted to be angry with him. She _was_ angry with him for taking her father’s tools, her trust, and the alchemy they had wanted to use to make their nation better and using it to slaughter civilians. But such power, such a country - maybe both of them had been naive to think it could have been used for anything else. Maybe Riza was angry at herself for thinking something good could have come from anything her father touched. Maybe she was angry because perhaps that applied to her, this alchemist’s daughter with a hawk’s eyes and a sniper’s steady hands.

Maybe the Hawkeye line was made of nothing but killers.

It was hard to reconcile the memory of the boy with the image of the man as he sat in front of her, sharing dinner over the fire. He had grown into himself, shoulders broader, voice deeper ( _deliciously_ so, a stupid, comically out-of-place voice in her head told her before she shut it down), his face losing some of its youthful roundness (but not much), stubble growing in unevenly over his chin. His eyes were shadowed and haunted.

She could feel the weight of the years and the deaths in the curl of his weary shoulders, could picture the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes, because where his dreams were ash and smoke and charred flesh, hers were inhale, exhale, pull the trigger, watch the blood spray the ground.

She had thought he was disappointed to see her again when she approached him after the battle, and had resolved to avoid him for their own good when his friend - _“Maes Hughes! So nice to meet you, despite the circumstances, I was just telling Roy about the letter I just got from my sweetheart, but he doesn’t want to listen!”_ \- invited her to dinner.

It was easier to recognize him like this. He was still quiet, he still took himself too seriously, but he wanted to do _good_. And his outburst at Kimblee earlier that day -

_“Tell me, miss: you’re not very happy to be here, are you? Well, you don’t appear to be. But can you honestly tell me, in that split second when you take down an enemy, you don’t allow yourself to feel the slightest tinge of satisfaction and pride in your skills? Well, miss marksman?”_

_“That’s_ enough, _Kimblee!”_

Roy had missed her. She knew it to her bones. And she had missed him. They had never wanted the other to be mixed up in this sort of business, and yet here they were, together again. She had met his gaze after their spat with the Crimson Alchemist, eyes watering and breath shaking but sight never wavering, and knew this wasn’t how he had thought he was going to make the world better.

But sitting here in the dark, in front of the fire, a tepid beer in her hands? Major Mustang staring into the fire like it would tell him how to stop the war if he listened hard enough?

The earth felt a bit steadier below her feet with him next to her.

She studied him from across the fire, keeping her face carefully inscrutable. His fingers were wrapped around the beer glass. His white gloves were new to her; she had heard they generated the sparks he needed for his alchemy, and the damage they created was - appalling.

A bitter part of her thought how much her father would love to see it.

She had missed his hands. She had missed the way he fiddled with his pen when he was thinking, the way he drummed his fingers over the desk, the palms roughened from work, the way they looked curled around a gun or toweling a dish dry. But now he was too tired to fidget.

When his voice tapered off, going quiet and thoughtful in a way he never had before he left for war, she wanted to reach for him, lace her fingers through his.

 _You’re here,_ she wanted to say, _you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re going to get through this. We’re going to build something better._

She wanted to reach out for him, hold him _once_ , feel his warm weight against her, the brush of his hair (shorter, thinner, finer than hers) against her temple, smell the smoke and ozone that clung to his uniform.

Riza looked to the fire just as he looked up from his drink, right at her. She wrapped her hands around her mug, clenching the glass tightly. She did not touch him.

**v.**

“There’s still time to change your mind.”

Despite everything, Hawkeye laughed into the pillow below her. “You couldn’t have said that before I took my shirt off?”

“I was distracted.”

“Rereading my father’s old notes? Making sure you didn’t miss anything?”

“Something like that.”

She scoffed. “Stop stalling.”

Roy laughed, a rattling, brittle sound. Of course, _of course_ she would see through his pathetic attempts at flirting and cut to the heart of his question. She knew to interpret _there’s still time to change your mind_ as _are you sure about this?_

He knew she was. And it still floored him that Hawkeye trusted him like this - with her father’s research, with her body, with burning her father’s research off of her body.

But she knew better than anyone else how much this work needed to be destroyed. She had watched him immolate guerrilla warriors and civilians alike with impunity using her father’s alchemy.

 _Progress for progress’ sake isn’t really progress,_ Hawkeye had said to him on the train back to her village. She rested her elbow on the windowsill, her chin propped in her hand. A strand of hair had escaped from behind her ear and was fluttering like a golden thread over her temple. Roy swallowed, once, and tightened his fingers over his knees to stop from reaching forward, feeling the strands curling between his fingers. _After everything we’ve done, everything we’ve seen, we have to be able to discern between research that will help the world, and research that will raze it to the ground._

 _In this case, literally,_ Roy had joked, as if it could smother the feelings taking root in his chest or the horror he had unleashed with a snap of his fingers.

Hawkeye had rolled her eyes. _Yes, Major. This kind of power can only destroy. We have to make sure no one else can ever use it again._

 _The Fuhrer will be displeased I won’t be able to make him any more human weapons,_ Roy had said.

_You’re not a weapon, Major. Just a man, like every other. Decide what you want to do with that._

Now, in her bedroom, naked from the waist up with her father’s research bared, the cruelty of what Master Hawkeye had done struck Roy anew. To tattoo the entire back of his child, to force her to carry the weight - literally and metaphorically - of his sins? He had known Master Hawkeye was not a warm man, nor a caring father, but this -

Roy breathed in, out. He was not going to help Riza - Miss Hawkeye - _Private_ Hawkeye, dammit, by getting worked up on her behalf. The man was buried half a mile away. He would never hurt his daughter again.

He reached down with the palm of his hand, running it over her shoulders. She stiffened at the contact, and he pulled away with a jerk.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I was just trying to picture where to burn you.”

Good God, and _that_ was supposed to inspire confidence? What did it say about the kind of man he was that that was the _comfort_ he had to give? What did it say about how damaged they were that it _worked_ , her shoulders relaxing?

“Okay,” Cadet Hawkeye said. “You just - caught me by surprise.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just let me know what you’re about to do before you do it.”

“Yes, Cadet,” Roy said, following her orders even though he was her superior officer. “I’m going to picture it again. Ready?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cadet Hawkeye said, nodding.

Roy reached down, steeling himself as he ran his fingers over her skin. He had already told Cadet Hawkeye that he had some (many) reserves about burning the entirety of her back, and so they agreed to just burn the most important parts - the chemical compositions, the alchemic circle. He focused on that, rather than the warmth of her skin, how soft it was, the strength in the muscles under his touch. He studied the alchemical circle over her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and she shivered.

“Are you cold?” Roy asked.

It took Private Hawkeye a moment to reply. “Just a slight chill, sir.”

“You won’t be cold in a moment,” Roy assured her before he decided to just kick himself out the window or down the stairs.

Private Hawkeye _laughed_ , even if it was a weak thing. Roy had to swallow whatever emotions were trying to crawl their way up his throat and out his mouth.

“I think I know where to do it,” Roy told her. “Are you ready, Private?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Roy didn’t move, and without looking up, Private Hawkeye told him, “Get a move on, Major, before we both chicken out.”

“Okay,” Roy said. “I’m going to count. One...two...three.”

On his first go around, Riza muffled her shrieks into the pillow. On the second, to Roy’s eternal gratitude to a God he may not have believed in, she passed out.

He stayed with her all through her recovery, because what kind of man would he be if he hadn’t? He changed her bandages and applied ointments and soothed her fever and read to her and helped her sit up to eat and stretch. He supported her when she got sick of bed rest and ordered him to let her _outside, dammit Major, or I’ll shoot you myself._

In that time they became closer than he had ever imagined - short of helping her use the restroom, he saw every part of her. He saw the freckles that dotted her collarbones, the shrapnel wound on her shoulder, the birthmark on her stomach that they debated the shape of ( _it’s a cloud,_ she said. _It’s ethane,_ Roy argued, and he laughed when she told him to shut up and called him a nerd), the scar on her knee when she fell down playing when she was six. Learning that the small pockmark on her chest was a remnant from the first time her gun jammed, because that was how she learned the damn things needed to be cleaned, was more intimate to him than skin-deep nudity.

(Not that the nudity helped, not when now he knew every curve and line of her body as well as he knew his own, not when she was as beautiful and imperfect as he had _dreamed_ , but how was he to tell her that, circumstances being what they were? How long had he ached to touch her this thoroughly and shamelessly, and now he _had to_ , or else her burns would ooze and go infected? Everything he touched was tainted by violence. He had wanted her for so long, and now the universe was laughing at him and teaching him that equivalent exchange wasn’t just for alchemy.)

The old Hawkeye estate was huge, but Roy still moved a camp bed into Riza’s bedroom. They didn’t say as much aloud, but their proper beds were too soft, yielding, comfortable. Sleeping for any longer than one or two-hour bursts felt like leaving an opening for an ambush. Being near her kept the nightmares at bay. Or on the nights they didn’t, on the nights he awoke shaking and trembling, when she startled awake with a shriek and a gasping sob, they stayed up until daybreak, speaking in low murmurs. It was weeks before she could sit up, eat, dress herself, bathe herself without his assistance. Time dragged in the first week, when Cadet Hawkeye was sleeping more often than not from the pain medications, and flew by afterwards. There was little to do except read, and talk, and take care of her, and he did all of it waiting for it to grow old.

It never did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! feel free to hmu on my tumblr @notantherwritingblog!


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from post-ishval to just before meeting two beloved little alchemists.
> 
> CW for discussions of the Ishval War/PTSD and alcohol use.

**vi.**

_What the fuck._

Roy sat at his desk, looking up at his new subordinate. When she had walked in, Roy had done a double-take, wondering if he really had finally snapped. If his nearly two months constantly in Miss Private Riza Hawkeye’s presence really had altered his axis so much that he just looked for her in every woman he saw.

(It had. Roy refused to accept it, but that didn’t change the fact.)

But there she was. It had been nearly six months since he saw her, leaving her to finish her healing and wrap up her placement in East City while he was transferred to Central to work out the last of the details from Ishval. Roy had at last, slowly, painstakingly, maybe succeeded (definitely failed) at unraveling her from his thoughts.

(He kept making too much coffee, too many eggs for breakfast, too many servings for dinner. He forgot to eat lunch, to take breaks, to go to bed at a reasonable hour. He flirted and brought women home with him and he awoke alone and missing Private Riza Hawkeye, who was off-limits, who he had left in some tiny eastern city.)

He remembered the little cot he had brought into her room, both of them laying on their sides, bodies turned toward each other. They talked through her pain, his insomnia, their nightmares and regrets, their worst missions and deeds. He told her how he grew up, his hopes, his dreams, his pain, letting her words - honest, blunt, warm - soothe the parts of him that were still broken, scrub clean the parts that were ugly and angry. She wasn’t healing him, at least on purpose. He knew, even then, she would be no one’s absolution but her own. But she cajoled and scolded him back onto the straight and narrow.

_I want to do good,_ the Private had told him one night. Her amber eyes had glowed in the light of dawn. Despite her exhaustion, pain and nightmares had kept her from sleep again. Roy had stared at her wordlessly, struck stupid by tiredness and the ethereal way the early light illuminated her face. _There has to be more I can do than this._

Even then, Roy knew that. He knew that she would be a force for good anywhere she went, in everything she did. She wanted to change the world for the better, wanted to work for it, was willing and able to plan and strategize for the long-term. She could draft makeshift policies and treaties on par with him, outshine him in foreign policy and diplomacy. But she didn’t thirst for the political accolades Roy did.

They planned decades of political, economic, and social change together in that little bedroom. When Roy left, it was like shucking off a blanket, waking up from a nap and being completely disoriented, surprised that their daydreams hadn’t magically come to fruition just because they spoke it.

But there she was: the Private - now Lieutenant - Hawkeye, her success on the field and the losses they had hemorrhaged in Ishval earning her an early promotion. She stood in front of his desk, face carefully neutral and tone appropriately distant and professional, as one would be with a superior officer. There was no hint of pain or discomfort when she saluted him, raising and lowering her arm. If anyone was listening in - _paranoid, Roy?_ asked a voice in his head that sounded like Hughes - they would have never thought that Roy had seen this woman coated in blood, sweat, and grime, or that he had seen her three-quarters naked.

_Thinking of her naked isn’t going to do you any favors,_ Roy reminded himself. _Not like it was for a good reason._

“If the world truly operates on the basis of equivalent exchange, then we soldiers have plenty to give back,” Lieutenant Hawkeye said to him. “If this world is meant to prosper, then it is our duty to carry the bodies of the dead across a river of blood to their resting place.”

Roy looked up at her, his mind flying a mile a minute. He knew this woman as deeply and intimately as he knew himself - her brilliance, her political acumen, her unflinching and unbending moral compass. There was no one else he trusted to watch his back, to keep him focused. No one else who knew how _important_ this work was, what he was running from and running towards and trying to atone for.

He stood up and explained his terms: she would be his direct assistant, but she would be the real one in control. Of his schedule, his days, his safety, his soul. His every move would be made under her watchful eye, and if he ever fell, if he ever strayed, she was to pull him back onto the path, or she was to end him.

Lieutenant Hawkeye had agreed like this was a casual request: “I’ll follow you into hell if you ask me to.”

It was ironic, Roy thought, because they had already been there.

“Are you sure about this?” Hughes asked Roy later on that evening. He accepted the pint of beer from the barmaid with a nod. Roy tried to smile flirtatiously, but it felt flat and forced even to him, and the server returned a lukewarm smile and returned to her duties without a word. He felt Hughes laugh beside him.

“I’m sure,” Roy said. He sipped the beer.

“But you two are…” Hughes waved a hand. “Like that.”

“We’re friends.”

Hughes snorted into his mug. Foam spattered over his glasses and he took them off to clean them on his shirt. Roy glared at him. “What was that for?”

“ _Friends_ ,” Hughes scoffed. He leaned his elbows on the table, shaking his head. “The way you two were in Ishval. The way you looked at her, talked about her. _Roy_. If you’re not in love with her yet, you’re going to be by the end of the week.”

Roy snorted and felt his face flushing. He tried to hide it by burying his nose into his beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just grew up together. And the war will do that to people.”

“Yes, well,” Hughes said with a sigh, seeming to gather that he wasn’t going to make any more headway with Roy tonight. “You didn’t see _me_ bandaging your wounds after the Crimson Alchemist almost blew your head off.”

“You never offered, Hughes. I’d love to have you weeping at my bedside.”

Hughes scoffed and raised his beer in a toast. “I think if you ever make that woman cry, _I’ll_ shoot you. To your decisions, Roy: the good, the bad, and the foolish.”

“You'd have to actually hit me,” Roy mumbled, and he sipped the beer. If he angled the glass just right under the lights, the liquid became the same shade as Riza’s eyes.

_Maybe Hughes was on to something,_ Roy thought to himself before he knocked back the drink.

**vii.**

Riza quickly learned that there was Roy Mustang, the boy who grew into a man under her roof and in the sand dunes of Ishval, and then there was Colonel Mustang, her superior officer.

Roy Mustang was too brilliant for his own good, with warm eyes and an easy smile. He worked hard, read and networked and researched and found the two of them a small, loyal band of friends - Fuery, Breda, Havoc, and Falman, with the two of them at the head. Their missions were executed on time and perfect to the letter (usually). They complimented each other well: Fuery’s well-meaning youthful optimism, Breda’s jovial personality and capability, Havoc’s brashness that concealed a heart of gold, Fulman’s encyclopedic mind, the Colonel’s plans and protective streak a mile wide, Riza keeping them all in line when they needed it and egging them on when they didn’t.

Colonel Mustang, however, was a different beast. He procrastinated on his paperwork, he was a lazy layabout, he flirted with anything that wore a skirt and/or breathed in his general direction, he antagonized anyone he didn’t already like or, as mentioned, didn’t want to flirt with. He came into work at least fifteen minutes late and stole the last of the coffee without replacing it.

In short, he put up the perfect face of a man who was returning from the war drunk on his own fame, a man who followed orders unquestionably like a loyal military dog. And he shamelessly used the doors that opened to network ( _brown-nose_ , less generous mouths murmured in the mess hall) his way up the brass. To the generals, to the Fuhrer himself.

(Only a core few knew that this was a mask, a front, a defense mechanism, phase one in a multi-step, decades-long plan. The four in their makeshift family knew - or at least trusted - that there was more to the Colonel than avoiding work and daydreaming of blue miniskirts. Hughes had known him for too long and was too intelligent to put up with the Colonel’s shit. Riza knew everything he did, because either she scheduled it or she was with him for it (or both. Usually, both.))

And while everyone was hating or envying Colonel Mustang, that opened up doors and mouths and ears to his long-suffering assistant, Lieutenant Hawkeye. She could put up a mask and be whoever she needed to be with the best of them, but she, at least, was allowed to be more quiet about it. The loyal Lieutenant collected names, gossip, and information and funneled it back to her team.

Between missions and paperwork and late nights in the office, at the bar, getting a quick bite to eat between meetings and Alchemist exams, they slowly, surely gathered intel and people and planned for a better future.

Up close, this government was vile - corrupt, nepotistic, and dirty. Generals sat in their cushy corner offices and started battles and wars (in the south and the west, when the fires of Ishval were barely out and their dead not even tallied. Hearing General Raven chortle about Colonel Mustang taking his expertise to the west made Riza grind her jaw and clench her fists so she wouldn’t punch the General's teeth out). People were promoted because they spouted the right politics, said what people wanted to hear, put the right amount of cenz in the right peoples’ hands. And the ones who didn’t play along were given the worst jobs, or demoted to other, less favorable locations. The army was rife with gossip for _weeks_ when General Grumman was abruptly transferred to “oversee” Eastern Command.

It took precious time for the Colonel to learn how to really hone his craft and suck up to the right people. By then, the best position the Hero of Ishval could get was East City. It was better than nothing.

~

For the first time since the War, their paths crossed with one Major Alex Louis Armstrong, the Strong Arm Alchemist, a _mountain_ of a man with metal gauntlets and a tendency to take his shirt off whenever given the opportunity. The only thing that had changed with him, it seemed, was the addition of an enormous handlebar mustache. It rather suited him.

(“He makes me feel impotent,” Colonel Mustang joked to her once after the Major helped them with a mission. They waved goodbye as his massive, shirtless form jogged back to headquarters with the tattered remains of his jacket folded over one arm.

“I can think of many reasons why, but which one is upsetting you now?” Riza had asked him, smirking to herself when her tease made the Colonel stumble over nothing, looking comically, boyishly put out.)

But the Major had pain and scars from Ishval, same as them. He accompanied them all to the bar that night, good-naturedly joining their drinking contest and drinking Breda and Havoc into a stupor. Fuery and Fulman escorted them home while the Colonel and Riza stayed behind in a cozy corner booth, drinking and talking about the war.

“I still get nightmares,” Riza confessed. The glass tumbler sat heavy in her hands, the liquor heavy on her tongue, words heavy in her chest, on her heart. She ignored Roy’s - the Colonel’s - eyes on her, bloodshot from exhaustion and alcohol.

It was hard to keep Roy Mustang and Colonel Mustang two separate entities in her mind in moments like these. The warmth and understanding in his eyes - dark gray, or deepest blue, she wasn’t sure of their color, glittering in the low oil lamps of this bar - was all Roy, but the stars on the shoulders of his military jacket (hung up beside him, his dress shirt wrinkled and rolled to his elbows, and he leaned toward her on the table on toned forearms, his gloves discarded, and she wanted to trace the spaces between his fingers, kiss his knuckles, and she ought to drink water but instead she took a sip of liquor to start this whole damn cycle over again) reminded her that this was the Colonel at the table, and she needed to be the Lieutenant.

But she couldn’t be the Lieutenant tonight. Tonight she was just Riza, the Hawk’s Eye, sniper and terror of Ishval. Just a little girl who had taught herself to shoot empty cans in her backyard because it was something she could learn by herself.

“I dream I have a mark,” Riza said, “And they’re in my sights. I pull the trigger and I hit them. But instead of the mark, it’s become -” a child. Hughes. Fuery, Breda, Havoc, Fulman. Rebecca Catalina. Armstrong. Roy, Roy, Roy.

A hand settled over hers. Startled, Riza looked up. But it was only Major Armstrong, weeping openly, because Riza had never met a man more in touch with his emotions, or more comfortable expressing them.

“I empathize completely, Lieutenant Hawkeye!” Armstrong boomed. The alcohol had made him lose all control over his volume (though, to say so implied he had any to begin with). “The things we did, the deaths we caused…” He put his free hand to his face, either to hide his shame or to compose himself, Riza was not sure. His handkerchief was embroidered in baby-blue thread. “To disobey the Fuhrer’s orders was to bring dishonor to the Armstrong name, and to myself, but to obey was to tarnish my family and soul beyond repair. What honor was there in the slaughter of innocents? Women, children, the elderly, the infirm? What victory is that?”

Riza looked up, met Roy’s gaze across the table. They had an entire conversation with just their eyes, with the tension in his jaw, the way Riza held his gaze to tell him that her mind was made up, and he was going to get on board. His brow relaxed as he wordlessly relented.

Major Armstrong was still speaking. “I cannot forgive myself. I will not.”

The Colonel’s expression softened, and he leaned forward. Despite the liquor they had consumed, there was a familiar calculated glint in his eyes. He asked, “What if you could do something for them?”

Soon after, Major Armstrong had joined their merry, treasonous little band.

~

Riza reconnected with Rebecca for the first time since their Academy days. They caught up over lunches, laughed about the past and men at the bars, commiserated over work and the bureaucratic shuffle getting morning coffees. Rebecca introduced her to some of her friends and for the first time in her life, Riza had a group of girlfriends to meet after work and sit with at lunch. She hadn’t realized how much of her life was choked up in testosterone until she had a break from it.

(She brought the men along sometimes, her group mingling with Rebecca’s friends. Havoc slept his way through all of them, and Falman could barely get a word in through his nerves, but Breda and Fuery managed a semi-decent relationship for a few months with a couple of nice girls before some unfortunate transfers. Roy flirted and bought drinks but never brought a girl home while he was out with Riza, just as Riza never brought a guy home with her when Roy came out with them. She tried not to think into it too much.)

But by far the most interesting night of all was the last evening of annual training competition between the Northern and Eastern brigades. Riza, flush with victory following a series of shooting competitions that she roundly decimated, had brought an equally pleased and victorious Rebecca to her favorite bar. (The one with the bartender who remembered her name and her order, the one with the polished dance floor and live music on Fridays, the one where they brought Major Armstrong into the fold, the one with the low lights that made Roy’s eyes and hair shine).

Riza had accepted a cocktail, sipping and giggling over a joke Rebecca said - and she really was in a great mood, the Hawk’s Eye _giggling_ at eight pm before the party had even gotten started - when they heard the imperious voice behind them:

“You know, the invitation to transfer is still open.”

And Riza and Rebecca turned to see Major General Olivier Armstrong standing behind them, one hand on the pommel of her sword, blonde hair perfect and uniform pressed even though they were technically off-duty. With a smirk, she swaggered up to the bar to join them. Bar patrons and off-duty soldiers parted for her like the sea.

“Too cold for me,” Rebecca said immediately. “And considering the North still won, I’m surprised you would want to change up personnel.”

Major General Armstrong scoffed. “I want talent and resolve and found it lacking among my soldiers today. Besides,” she added, signaling to the bartender and ordering three fingers of gin, “We need more women in power in this godforsaken military.”

The gin arrived, and the Major General knocked it back like a shot. Riza and Rebecca stared, astounded, as the Major General swallowed it in one gulp and barely reacted. She looked into the glass with her trademark disdain. “Ugh. The liquor down here is like _water_.”

She looked at the other two and lifted one perfectly-manicured eyebrow. “Join me for a real drink?”

In another situation, Riza might have passed - she and the Major General barely knew one another, and she wanted to party with her squad, drinking and jibing and dancing and stealing all of Havoc and Breda’s money over darts and cards. But for the minutest second, Riza caught the flicker in the Major General’s eyes. Some hesitance, or resolve, as if she were bracing for the refusal.

Riza thought back over the past few days and realized she had never once seen Olivier Armstrong so much as _speak_ to another woman.

“Sure,” Riza said. She glanced at Rebecca, who looked briefly surprised before she grinned.

“Hell yeah! C’mon, we’ve practically got a spot reserved for ourselves,” she said, and she weaved through the crowd to sit in their favorite booth in the back. Major General Armstrong wiggled her way into the seat, somehow still looking like the pinnacle of elegance and ferocity, but as soon as she settled she curled her lip.

“My brother’s fat ass has been here.”

Riza and Rebecca exchanged glances. Riza said, “Yes, he has joined us for drinks before.”

“How the _hell_ could you tell?” Rebecca asked.

“The damn seat’s got a good three-inch dent on it,” the Major General said. She grumbled something under her breath and pulled an impressively large bottle out of her inner pocket, slamming it into the table. “Drink up, ladies,” she said. “That’s Fort Briggs’ finest moonshine.”

"How did you fit that in your jacket?" Riza asked.

Rebecca frowned thoughtfully. She reached for the bottle and unscrewed the cap, lifting the bottle to waft the scent into her nose. She jerked her head back, making an audible _bleh_ sound. “Oh my _God_ , General, that’s not alcohol! That’s - that’s _paint thinner!"_

“It’s multi-purpose,” The Major General said, taking the bottle from Rebecca’s slack grip and knocking it back in one smooth motion.

“Should we get glasses?” Riza asked.

“A bunch of luxury-spoiled prissies, the lot of you,” the Major General grumbled. “Come up to the Fort, and I’ll put some hair on your chests. Oi! Mustang!” She snapped her fingers, startling Riza as she barked just over Riza’s shoulder. “Get us some glasses, will you?”

“And what do I get in return, General Armstrong?” The Colonel asked. He had been drinking already, the lightweight, and in this packed bar he was in full _flirtatious bastard_ mode. It did _things_ to his voice, which in turn did _things_ to Riza’s insides. She took a long sip of her drink.

“I won’t try and steal your _precious Lieutenant_ ,” the Major General said. She wafted a hand toward the bar. Riza had to try not to choke over her drink, immediately regretting taking such a deep sip of her whiskey sour. “ _Maybe_. Fetch, Mustang.”

Riza sensed the Colonel’s confusion, hesitation, his gaze burning into the back of her head. She glanced up at him, quirking a brow with a bit of a smirk. The Colonel sighed.

“Jeeze, fine, twist my arm. I’ll get to it when I can,” he said, and in less than a minute they had a trio of clean drinking glasses in front of them.

“At least he’s useful there,” the Major General said, and she poured a generous amount into each glass. Riza set aside her cocktail for politeness’ sake and lifted the glass to her nose. It was strong, like acetone.

“It’s not a flower, Lieutenant,” the Major General said. Riza knew she shouldn’t have taken the bait, but she did, and she threw back the moonshine and proceeded to nearly spit it across the table. It _burned_ , stinging her nose and mouth and throat the entire way down. She glanced at the bottle to see if it had a label on it like _bleach_ or _rubbing alcohol_ or simply a sticker with a skull on it. It was just a plain, reused wine bottle.

"'Atta girl," the Major General said, and she topped up their glasses.

The next few hours were a blur to Riza (well, truthfully, the entire evening afterwards was a blur). Only a few bare moments stood out to her:

Major General Armstong telling them they could use Miss Olivier, because that was less of a mouthful than her full title, and Rebecca just calling her “Ollie” for the rest of the night, and Olivier flushing a shade pinker instead of losing her shit.

The three women getting giggly and rating the ass of every man who walked past their table. Rebecca was generally rating them highly, because she was single and a bit horny; Riza was calculating in her rating system, citing important factors like _curvature_ and _tightness_ and _cheek symmetry_ ; and Olivier was biting caustic and left the entire table in stitches, with sore stomachs and cheeks from laughing so hard. They also spent some time discussing their best lays, because the bottle of moonshine was three-quarters empty and for the first time in years the filter between Riza’s brain and mouth was _off_. It was liberating and terrifying and _so fun._

Rebecca finished up a horrifically detailed rendition of her favorite romp with Havoc when she turned to Riza. “So, what about you and _the Kern-el?”_

Riza choked on the moonshine. The alcohol had long since lost its flavor, but the sting was still enough to have Riza’s eyes watering. “That is - ” she said, “ - I - We’re not - it’s not like that. We’re str- _hic_ -strinctly colleagues. Professionals. Officer-adjudant.”

“Are you for real?” Rebecca asked, looking supremely put-out for a woman who had once described the Colonel as “a big pile of sad.”

“Yes! Why is that so surprising?” Riza asked.

“Because you’re, you know,” Rebecca waved a hand and accidentally slapped someone walking past their table. “Like that.”

“Like what?” Riza asked. “We’re friends. We’ve known each other years. We were in Ishval together.”

“It takes a certain type of luck to meet someone whose jagged edges line up with yours,” Olivier said. Her tone had the clarity that only came to the well and truly sloshed. When she looked at Riza across the table, her eyes were glassy and clear and piercing as ice. “Edges that fit together rather than cut. It takes a certain kind of bond to achieve the sort of trust and respect you two have for one another.”

“I thought you hated Mustang,” Rebecca slurred.

“I thought you _both_ did,” Riza said, nettled and not sure why. She took another sip of her drink, uncomfortable with how the conversation had veered into this territory. It left her feeling seen and vulnerable, like a bad snipe position.

“I think he’s a philandering lout who takes you for granted,” Rebecca said, her lips pouty as she drank more of her alcohol with a _slorp_ sound. She wasn’t even sitting up properly anymore. “All those women he’s always on about - Jacqueline, Bess, Francine? _Elizabeth?_ ” She scoffed. “Gimme a break. Idiot.”

“Huh - oh, yeah,” Riza said, her confusion at the names of her colleagues’ codenames almost making her slip. “It’s the worst-kept secret around here that he’s the biggest flirt in Amestris.”

“It really is,” Olivier said thoughtfully. She sipped her glass delicately. Were Riza a less confident woman, she might have been self-conscious over how Olivier appeared as unruffled and perfectly put together as she had when they sat back here three hours ago. She eyed Riza over the rim of her glass. “Interesting, that for a man with such a blabbermouth, no one’s ever actually seen him out on a real date. East City isn’t _that_ big.”

“He just hides it,” Rebecca huffed. “Different places with a different girl on his arm every night. Sounds like a power trip thing for him!”

Olivier snorted loudly. “Power? _Him?_ He wouldn’t know it if it bit him on his pasty ass.”

“I think you have a butt kink, Ollie,” Rebecca said. She giggled and stood up. “I’m off to freshen up. Don’t gossip too much without me!”

She swayed into the bathroom, toddling slightly in her heels. Riza studied Olivier across the table.

“You’re very harsh on the Colonel.”

Olivier did not respond at first. She swirled her drink around her glass.

“I dislike politics,” Olivier said finally. “Or, I dislike _politicking_. I do not respect people who do one thing in public and another in private. I dislike people who say whatever needs to be said to get whoever they want listening to hear them. I value people whose motives are plain, who let their power and actions speak for themselves. It’s why I was placed far from Central, up at the Fort.” She eyed Riza. “You can see why I would dislike Colonel Mustang.”

Riza bit back a comment that was more scathing and protective than the situation called for. “I can.”

“Now,” Olivier said, running a hand through her long, perfect hair. “I can respect what he’s trying to do. Wholescale change from within is a difficult task. But I dislike the Colonel’s… capriciousness. I also just think he's generally an annoying little pissant.” She jerked her head in the direction Rebecca retreated in. “She thinks that the Colonel is drunk on his own power. But I know power where I see it, and in your platoon, the power does not rest with the Colonel, not really.” She smirked. “You have the power, Lieutenant. I wonder why.”

She knocked back the last of her drink as Rebecca returned. “I think we should head out,” she said to Rebecca. “Do you need help getting home?”

“Ohh, Ollie, you _are_ a big softie!” Rebecca cooed. She looped an arm through Olivier’s. “Let’s go! I want fries. Can we get fries?” She looked at Riza. “Coming?”

“I think I ought to get to bed,” Riza said. She stood and had to hold onto the booth to regain her bearings. “Shit, Olivier, what was _in_ that?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t have had any,” Olivier said. Perhaps Riza was further gone than she thought, but she swore Olivier _winked_ at her. “Get home safe, Lieutenant. There’s always a spot at Fort Briggs for you if you want it.”

She left. Riza blinked, sitting down alone in the booth and peering into her glass. She wondered if the past few hours were a dream.

_The power does not rest with the Colonel, not really. You have the power, Lieutenant. I wonder why._

The last phrase was said in a statement, not a question. It appeared that the General had sized up the situation with her unerring skill and made her own decisions. Her astuteness left Riza feeling again like she was naked in front of a crowd, like a bug that had been flipped over to reveal its soft underbelly.

The Colonel had given her more power than any superior should ever give to a subordinate. He had tasked her to be his judge and executioner. She guarded his life and was invited to - _ordered_ to - end it if he strayed. They had never talked about those orders after that first day.

“You look like you could use this.”

And like the proverbial devil, the Colonel appeared, placing a full glass of water in front of Riza and settling into the space Rebecca had abandoned. He made himself comfortable and snagged what was left in Riza’s glass. He took a sip and made a face like he had bit into a raw onion.

“My _god_ , what _is_ that? Formaldehyde? Did the Major General just bring down a bottle of vinegar from the Fort to fuck with all of us?” Roy asked. Looking into his glass like he was bemused by it, he took another sip.

“It’s not stopping you,” Riza pointed out. Roy chuckled.

“Nor you, clearly.”

It wasn’t _fair_ , Riza thought, that Roy - she was slipping again, he was the _Colonel,_ Colonel Mustang, or just sir - that this man could look so handsome even after a night out. His hair playfully mussed, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, top buttons undone under that snug-fitting vest and that loosened tie. He sent her a smirk across the table, warm and teasing and Riza wanted to reach across the table and snatch his tie and press her lips to his, regulations and onlookers be damned.

Riza took a sip of her water. “We had fun.”

“ _Fun?_ With the Major General?” The Colonel teased. “I didn’t know she knew how to have fun without killing someone.”

“The night is still young.”

Roy laughed out loud, real and from his stomach, his eyes wrinkling in their outer corners, and fuck, fuck Olivier and Rebecca for putting these thoughts in her head, though she couldn’t really blame them if they had already been there for years, could she?

“I have a question,” Riza said, a bit too loud and too fast for this crowded bar but before she could chicken out.

“You need only ask,” the Colonel said.

Riza tapped her fingers around the rim of her glass before she reminded herself that she was an adult and she was supposed to be past these kinds of nervous tics.

“When I took this position,” Riza said, “You asked me to finish you if you strayed from the path. That’s...a lot to ask a person. Why did you ask that of me?”

It was obvious that whatever Roy had anticipated, it was _not_ this. His playful grin faded from his face; in fact, as the question sunk in, Roy looked almost shamefaced. He took a long drink of the moonshine in the glass, his mouth perilously close to the lipstick smear Riza had left hours ago. He was quiet for so long that Riza wondered if he was just not going to answer.

But she deserved this answer, and Riza was a patient woman. So she knew how to settle in comfortably and wait for what she wanted to come.

And true to her instincts - as a soldier, as a woman, as someone who has known and worked with Roy Mustang for years - he did eventually open his mouth to speak.

“I asked you because I trust you.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Saying it out loud, it sounds like less than it is. Or maybe Hughes was really onto something when he said the reasons are always simple.” He looked up from the glass, his liquid dark eyes meeting hers. “I asked you because you know what we did in Ishval. Because you want to make this country better as much and as fiercely as I do, because you and I agree on how to get there. You have a rigid moral code and the resolve to hold fast to it. You survived Ishval with your kindness and compassion intact. It’s… awe-inspiring. It’s one of the many things I respect about you.”

He looked down at his hands with thinly-veiled disgust. “I wanted my alchemy to make the world better. But when it came down to it, I followed orders I knew were wrong because I lacked the moral fortitude to argue. And I know you did terrible things, too - this isn’t about absolution, or because I’ve put you on some infallible pedestal. But on that last day, I planned to become Fuhrer, and you buried the Ishvalan child who lay at our feet. So really, you were the one who understood what our priorities ought to be. You’re the best of all of us. You always have been.

“Sometimes I fear I’ll be stained forever by the things I’ve done. I fear that I’m just a monster, or a rabid dog who needs to be put down. And if it comes to that, I wanted that person to be you. You’re the one I trusted not to sway to politics or outside pressures. You would listen to your conscience.”

Riza stared, her lips slightly parted. There was so much pain, so much naked vulnerability and honesty in Roy’s eyes. Demons she hadn’t met in years were out in full force, sitting in the bags under his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. Roy went on:

“But… those orders come from a different, more damaged man. The passage of time heals whether we feel we deserve it or not, it seems. It wasn’t fair to demand you to add my blood to your hands. I’m sorry I abused my power in that way. I… I officially rescind that order,” Roy said softly. His eyes were embers burning into hers, smoldering and smiting to her soul. Then he looked away, back at his interlocked hands. His right thumb ran repeatedly over his left.

“I know I have no right to do this, after everything...but I still would like to ask you to end me, if I ever go too far to pull back.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be a monster or just a military dog. I don’t want to become someone like - like Kimblee, or MacDougal, or Grand. I would rather die before I do anything like Ishval again. And you will remain the person I trust the most to make that call. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Riza was quiet for a long time, thoughts and feeling whirling through her mind. Then, before she could stop herself, she released her hold on her water glass and reached across the table, putting her hands over top of his. It was the first time she had touched him like this, skin-to-skin, no gloves, offering comfort. A touch just to touch.

(His skin was warm, almost feverishly hot under Riza’s glass-chilled fingers. She felt the curves of his bones and knuckles under her hands. His hands were larger than hers, broad palms and long graceful fingers, and his skin was much softer than she had imagined, until she remembered that he used gloves that kept his hands clean and safe where Riza’s were hard and callused from guns and fighting.)

“I asked you to burn my back. I think I can return the favor and shoot you in yours.”

He was staring at her like he had never seen her before. When he met her eyes, reading everything in her open, unfiltered gaze, sensing her severity mixed with the humor at the ridiculousness of the situation, his face split into a grin.

“I think that’s fair.”

“Good.”

They paused for a minute and then seemed to remember that they were a Colonel and his Lieutenant holding hands in the middle of a crowded bar. As one, they yanked their hands back.

“So. Um,” the Colonel said. “Do you want to get fries?”

“Oh my god, _please_.”

~

Maes Hughes got married in an enormous spring ceremony, complete with flowers and balloons and dancing and a cake the size of the Fuhrer himself. The Colonel was best man, Riza one of the bridesmaids. He walked her down the aisle, her arm in his. His purple tie complimented the white flower on his lapel, his pale skin, his slicked-back hair.

“I told you the hair made you look like a bird, sir,” Riza murmured to him as he walked her to the altar. She felt rather than heard him chuckle next to her.

“Hughes said it makes me look older. More distinguished.”

“Respectfully, Hughes lied, sir.”

This time he did laugh aloud. He looked down at her, smile genuine and eyes tender and familiar, and for a moment it was just the two of them in this chapel. Her chest fluttered with something totally inappropriate to feel towards her superior officer.

“You look stunning,” He murmured, and they parted ways to stand on opposite sides of the altar. From her place, Riza glared at him for flirting with her. He winked at her, the smirk saying Colonel Mustang but the soft expression in his eyes all Roy.

They didn’t dance at Hughes’ wedding. Considering Riza still went to bed that night with her head buzzing from the warmth of his hands and his smile and his cologne, she might have spontaneously combusted on the dance floor the second he put a hand on her waist. She longed for it so much she ached.

She shut those feelings down _hard_ , closing them up tight and snapping them into a box and shoving it deep into the recesses of her mind. When they got back to Central, Riza finally allowed Rebecca to set up that blind date she had been going on about for weeks.

And so the first three years of their professional partnership passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!! this work is my response to finally watching fmab for the first time in This Year On This Bitch Of An Earth 2020. i have fallen head over feet into this pair and fandom. 
> 
> i can be found on tumblr @notantherwritingblog! feel free to drop me a line if you want!


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from meeting two memorable little alchemists to when things started to go very, very wrong.

**viii.**

The house looked like a damn horror movie.

Riza needed to steel her nerves lest she be sick. Bookcases were toppled to the ground, leather-bound tomes cracked and papers wrinkled and crushed. The entire floor was taken up by a white transmutation circle - larger than Riza had ever seen, its symbols illegible to Riza’s untrained eye but saying something that made the Colonel’s eyes go wide and jaw tense. And the _blood_ \- there was so much _blood_ , over the walls, pooled on the floor, streaked like something - _someone_ \- had been dragged.

And in the center of it all, something black and curled and hunched, limbs grotesque and spidery and limp, reeking of sulfur and death -

“Colonel, what _is_ that -?” Riza asked, but he spoke over her. To the unfamiliar ear he sounded angry, but Riza knew how to read horror, disgust, fear in that tone.

“Where are they?” He demanded, as if the air was going to tell him what he wanted to know. “Where are the Elric brothers?”

When they went to the first and only place they may have checked, the homestead of one Rockbell Automail Parts, they did it with the impression that two brilliant, dangerous alchemists were in hiding. Colonel Mustang explained the seal in the floor, the _creature_ in its center, and told her in a shaking voice that it was an attempt at human transmutation gone horribly wrong but, even worse, spectacularly _right._

Riza was no alchemist, but even she knew the taboo on human transmutation. And to find an alchemist of that kind of power in this tiny, middle-of-nowhere country town - Riza ran through half-a-dozen plans to incapacitate, detain, or kill these alchemists, as needed.

But never, in her wildest dreams or most far-fetched plans, had she anticipated _this._

A child - a boy, a _child_ \- in a wheelchair, blond hair unkempt and gold eyes downcast. His right arm gone, the left pant leg empty and slack from just above the knee. An enormous suit of armor hovered behind him, standing stoic like a protector before a small voice spoke from it, echoing hollowly in the plate mail.

“We’re sorry,” the boy in the armor said, and his voice was wheedling, as if pleading for this scary, military stranger not to get him in trouble or punish him. It sent something horrible curdling in Riza’s stomach. “We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to, we’re sorry, we’re _sorry_ -”

Riza sat in the living room, the part of the dutiful Lieutenant, while the State Alchemist spoke to the two boys and the closest thing they had to a guardian. The grandmother’s little girl came to sit with her, giving her some tea. She was blond like the boy, but a bright, straw-colored sort of blonde like Riza had, and she had big blue eyes that struck Riza as familiar, so _familiar_ , where had she -

Riza’s hand stilled raising her teacup to her lips. This little girl, raised by her grandmother. Her bright eyes, blonde ponytail. The name _Rockbell._

“Soldiers like you are why my parents went away,” the daughter of the doctors Rockbell said, her shoulders curled.

(Riza knew that she meant _your war is why my parents are dead, your war is why you want to take my best friends away from me.)_

Riza explained to her, as gently as she could, that she and the Colonel had no intention of forcing the two boys into the State Alchemist program if they didn’t want it. It would hardly be appropriate to explain to this child the lengthy conversations she and the Colonel had, and definitely were going to continue having, about his decision to recruit the two.

“Have you ever had to shoot anyone, Lieutenant?” the little girl asked, looking up at Riza with those big innocent eyes.

Riza hadn’t had the opportunity to meet the doctors Rockbell personally, but she’d had plenty of friends get patched up by them. They returned from the med tent with stitched and bandaged wounds and burns. She was elsewhere in Ishval when the doctors were murdered, but word of the two Rockbell doctors getting killed spread like lice among the ranks. Especially with the additional rumor that it was an Ishvalan survivor who had murdered them.

Riza had never put much stock in those rumors, but she remembered her friends raving about the doctors’ warm, no-nonsense manner and steady hands and looking down at her own. Her hands were as steady on her rifle as the doctors’ were with their suture kit.

Somehow, it had never occurred to her until that moment that her skills - steady hands, a studious mind, a cool head during crises when everything went to shit - could have been applied to anything outside the military.

 _You really are your father’s daughter,_ Riza mused, studying the hands of a killer. _The Hawkeye line really is one made to destroy._

“I have,” Riza said softly. She looked down at the child. Some might say this conversation wasn’t appropriate to have with a twelve-year-old, but Riza disagreed. If she thought to ask, then she deserved a real answer. “It’s not something I take lightly. But it’s something I chose, and it’s a decision I have to live with.”

“Why?” The girl asked.

This answer, at least, came to her with an ease that was both worryingly easy and unfortunately inevitable. “There’s someone I need to protect.”

And at that moment, the Colonel left the side room. “Let’s go, Lieutenant!”

Riza stood, clicking her heels. “Sir.”

She followed him out to where their cart was waiting for them. Riza smiled down at the girl.

“You take care.”

The child looked up at her. Her expression and eyes hardened, and Riza saw the core of steel beneath that soft surface. She extended a hand. “It’s Winry.”

Riza smiled. _I like this girl._ “Winry. I hope we’ll meet again.”

And she meant it.

She waited until they were out of earshot to turn to the Colonel. “You do not _seriously_ mean to recruit a child to the State Alchemist program.”

“They’re talented, Lieutenant,” the Colonel argued. “They’ll receive training, support, guidance. The resources available to them as State Alchemists might even allow them to get their bodies back. Better this than be left destitute and hopeless, or swept up by some other organization or country.”

“They are _children_ ,” Riza stated, and that one sentence had laid all of her cards on the table.

“Did you see that kid? He had the look of more than any mere child’s strength. There was fire in those eyes,” the Colonel said.

“I don’t give a damn what you saw in his eyes,” Riza snapped. “Are you anticipating sending a child into the front lines?”

“We were children when we were sent to Ishval!” Roy retorted.

“ _Exactly_ , Colonel!” Riza cried.

The Colonel looked ready to snap, but as her words sunk in, his face softened. He sat back against the seat. Almost too low to hear, as if he uttered it without intending to, he murmured, “There you go again.”

“There I go again, what?” Riza asked more testily than she intended. Quickly she added, “Sir.”

The Colonel peered over at her from under his lashes. “Showing me where I’ve gone off-track.” With a sigh, he broke their eye contact to look over the vast countryside. “Well, in any case, at least he won’t be calling for several years. We’ve bought that much time.”

**ix.**

_“There was fire in those eyes,”_ Roy had said about Edward Elric, and he had meant it. Even as an emaciated, feverish wisp of a thing, there had been grit in that child’s golden eyes. Roy anticipated seeing him in some five to six years’ time, grown and healed and ready to take on the world.

Instead, he got a phone call less than fourteen months after that meeting. The voice on the other end had been unrecognizable save for the fact that it was a child’s, and Roy couldn’t think of any other children who had his direct military line.

But the point of the matter was, what Roy had initially thought of as _fire_ and _spunk_ was really just _disrespect for authority_ and _a stubborn streak a mile wide_ and _just generally being a little shit._

Edward Elric was temperamental and more observant than his age would lead one to believe. His favorite words were _damn_ and _bastard_ , usually in that order. He was very insecure about his height, which Roy found rich coming from a child who had experienced as much trauma as those two had. His younger brother, Alphonse, was the more diplomatic of the two, sweet-tempered and forever corralling his elder brother. He tended to pick up stray kittens on the side of the road. Once, Fuery bumped into Alphonse, spilling soup all over the floor, and _Al_ was the one who apologized first. But they were both idealistic, driven, ambitious, and brilliant.

They were two of the best alchemists Roy had ever seen and, frankly, was sure he ever would.

(Not that he would ever tell them that, though.)

Roy attended the elder Elric brother’s State Exam, standing between two generals to put on a public appearance of being a smug bastard. It was easy to pass off his presence as Colonel Mustang coming to see if his recruit would really make history for them both: the youngest Colonel in years recruiting the youngest State Alchemist in the nation’s history. Only Hughes, Lieutenant Hawkeye, and perhaps the rest of his loyal crew knew that this was really Roy Mustang coming to see the progress of the boy he had met a year ago.

Truth be told - and Roy would have only shared this truth with a very small, select group of two - he could not believe that the military was really going through with this. Hughes had slipped Roy Edward Elric’s exam results, and he had been unsurprised to see that the infant had excelled. But this was insane, even for a corrupt military that burned its money on neverending wars and sent soldiers to the field before they had even properly graduated (Hawkeye and Fuery were proof of that, each of them prodigies in their respective fields, sent to the front lines only two-thirds of the way through their tenure at the military academy). For all of his calculating, Roy had never truly thought they would allow a _twelve-year-old boy_ to take the practical exam.

But in strut a boy Roy only knew by sight - pale skin, golden hair and eyes shining from a distance. He wore black clothes and a garish red jacket and _Oh, God,_ Roy kind of hoped the kid passed because he wanted to make fun of this child with an instinct long-dormant from his days growing up with a dozen sisters. But what mattered was he walked on two feet, and when he shook the examiners’ hands, he did so with two (gloved) hands.

“Where did you find this boy, Colonel?” One of the Generals inquired. Roy turned to him with a shit-eating grin.

“Even further East than here,” he said, “Just a small village in the country.”

He turned his attention back to the ground below. Edward Elric was already looking up at him, frowning. When Roy met his gaze, he hesitated, grimacing.

Roy sat back and let himself smirk down at the child.

Edward’s scowl deepened, and he stalked on.

The others stepped back, allowing Edward Elric room to complete his exam. Roy tilted his head in confusion as he looked down - he held no chalk, had no other implements or tattoos to create his transmutation circle.

And then Edward clapped his hands, and there was a flash of light, a crackling in the air like lightning. It didn’t have the same tang on the tongue as the ozone Roy was used to, but it was similar enough that Roy was briefly taken aback.

Then he dropped, palms flat to the floor, and -

Roy’s mouth actually fell open as a child - a twelve-year-old child, who had broken the taboo, who had only half of his limbs this time a year ago - transmuted without a circle.

Chills broke out across the back of Roy’s neck. His mouth actually dropped open as he watched Edward Elric craft a spear from the exam room floor, the handle growing longer and taller before finally ending in a deadly point. Its metal point shone even from his vantage point.

 _Impossible, that’s impossible,_ Roy thought, because for all of his time under the tutelage of Berthold Hawkeye they had never even _discussed_ transmuting without a circle. It was widely accepted as impossible, much like flying or turning water to wine.

 _What are you,_ Roy wondered, even as the little hellion _swung a weapon into the Fuhrer’s face._

_What are you?_

Obviously, Edward Elric passed his exam, earning his position of youngest State Alchemist in history and receiving his moniker _Fullmetal,_ because King Bradley had quite the morbid sense of humor. The generals were practically salivating at the idea of such a young, powerful acquisition for the military. Roy promised himself that every single foaming-at-the-mouth warmonger would need to get through him, personally, before they sent that child so much as a telegram. Roy walked him through his orientation back in his office, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the little brat finally left.

“He’s going to kill me, Hawkeye,” Roy said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his temples. He peeked up at her. The outer corners of her eyes wrinkled in a smile she was too practiced to let show on her face.

“I did warn you, sir.”

**x.**

“We need a code.”

Riza ducked her head. It took a great deal of self-control to refrain from groaning aloud, or hitting her head on her desk, or just falling asleep altogether. Not that it mattered, because Havoc, Breda, and Fuery, respectively, had those reactions covered.

Instead, Riza rubbed her first and second fingers to her temples. “I really don’t think any more complicated than our usual communication and code names are necessary. Sir.”

The Colonel spun around in his chair like a child. The action was a comical contrast to the thoughtful expression on his face. His fingers stroked his chin as he stared down at these blueprints of the swing club they would be infiltrating for this mission.

“And what if our coms go down?” the Colonel asked. “What if our signal is found? What if we’re made and being watched?”

“Fucking _fine_ ,” Havoc said irritably. “Whatever. If we’re going to make it into one of those spy radio dramas…”

“I’m just offended you think someone could tap my frequency,” Fuery mumbled.

“I worry we are making this needlessly complicated,” Fulman pointed out.

“Besides, boss, it’s Havoc and Hawkeye who are the ones who will be going in to attract attention,” Breda added.

Distantly, a clock chimed 2200 hours. Riza refrained from sighing explosively, but only barely.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” she reasoned. “The overall plan is established. Let’s ruminate on that tonight, and add any more fine details when we’re freshly rested.”

“Careful, Lieutenant. Seems you’re forgetting who gives the orders here,” the Colonel said, a lazy smirk over his face. Riza shot him a look that only he could interpret - _I outrank four of the five of you; we will not accomplish any more when we’re exhausted and hungry; we both know that I’m the one really in charge, anyway, so shut up and stop acting like you don’t agree._

The Colonel relented. “But the Lieutenant is right, as always.” He sighed like this was a blow to his pride rather than a universally accepted fact. “Head home, all of you. We’ll review at 0800 hours."

“That means you have to be here on time,” Havoc pointed out as he stood. He shucked a hand through his hair and grimaced at the feeling, his hair product that normally kept it carefully tousled and shiny congealing into grease after the long day.

“Insubordination, Second Lieutenant,” the Colonel said lazily. “You’re on donut and coffee duty.”

Havoc scoffed. “Gets me out of here. Night, y’all,” he said in his country drawl.

“Don’t forget -!” Fuery called.

“No nuts, kid, I know,” Havoc said. His tone sounded gruff and short from weariness, but he winked at Fuery as Havoc left the room with Breda. The two shared an apartment for two single bachelor soldiers near the barracks, just outside of Eastern Command. Fulman left for his single officers’ quarters, and Fuery followed, heading to the barracks.

Riza sighed as they left, the room going quiet. She reached up to her head, loosening the clip that held her hair up and out of her face. Blonde hair swayed down about her shoulders, fluffing out as she finger-combed through it. Her scalp itched. She glanced at the Colonel. Despite his attempts to keep working, the long day seemed to be catching up to him: his chin was propped in his hand, dark eyes gone distant as he stared vaguely in her direction. It took her a few tries to catch his attention.

“Colonel. Colonel!”

He started. “Oh. Sorry. My apologies, Lieutenant.”

Riza stood up and started to put away their mess of papers. Part of her wanted to leave the mess be, given that they would all be back here in a few hours anyway, but she knew security protocols and policies like the back of her hand and stood up to put things away. The Colonel stood up to help her, putting things away shoulder-to-shoulder with her. His presence was like a warm blanket being tossed over her, and the knotted, tense muscles in Riza’s neck and back loosened in spite of herself.

Riza took a deep breath to steady herself. She wanted to lean into his warmth, let his larger, muscular form curl around her. She wanted to smell the smoke and spice that clung to his collar. She wanted to doze off cocooned in his arms.

She _needed_ a shower, and a meal, and a bed (hers, where she alone would face-plant into the pillows for a spare few hours before doing it all again).

She closed up and locked the drawers. She made to leave, making it as far as the door and flipping out the lights before she realized the Colonel was not behind her. Riza turned and found Roy leaning over his desk. His lamp was the only spot of light in the room. It lit his torso and face in a halo of warm, greenish light. He was staring down into a small, familiar book in his hands, gnawing at his lower lip as if in thought.

“Sir?” Riza asked. “Are you leaving with me?”

The Colonel looked up from the notebook. Even from her spot at the door, Riza saw familiar diagrams set beside Roy’s spiked, oddly elegant writing. His alchemical research notes.

“Names,” the Colonel told her.

Riza was sure this word was meaningful, but she was tired and weary and did not have the mental bandwidth to speak with their usual subtlety. “I beg pardon?”

The Colonel lifted the notebook. “The code. For this mission, for us - the team, that is,” He amended hastily. He looked out the windows, as if checking for eavesdroppers. He sighed, running a hand through his hair so it stuck out at odd angles in the back. Riza would deny forever that she loved when he did that. He went on, “I’ve always had a knack for remembering peoples’ names. Part of growing up in a brothel, I suppose. It’s why my codenames for you all are women’s names. And why...why my notes are coded as womens’ names and numbers in my address book.”

Riza’s back stiffened. Were she more awake, she would have snapped - _why would you tell me that, why would you tell the person who carries the secrets to flame alchemy how to decode your notes, do you know how dangerous that is, how foolish, how much it means to me that you trust me like this -_

“I see,” Riza said carefully. Her tone was perfectly even and neutral. She tilted her head, trying to work out the kinks in her neck. Her mind was starting to spin in more useful directions, taking in this new information. “And you want to incorporate names into our code?”

“Yes,” Roy - _the Colonel_ \- said. He looked relieved that Riza hadn’t chewed him out, which only made her want to do it more. The fool had known this was dangerous and stupid, and he did it anyway. Idiot man. She adored him. “It’s simple - the first letter of a name corresponds to a letter. The letters together create the message.”

“How do you plan to indicate the start and end of the message?” Riza asked. “It would need to be innocuous.”

“Hmm,” the Colonel hummed. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk, then he glanced down at them. A grin broke out over his face. “Two taps. Two taps to indicate the start of the message, two taps to show acknowledgement of the code, two taps to show the message ending, two taps to show message received. And then we carry on, none the wiser.”

“Two taps,” Riza repeated. She thought it over, but couldn’t think of any pressing argument she had to present. It was an excellent idea.

The Colonel grinned and nodded. “Give it a whirl, Lieutenant.”

Riza sighed. She knocked on the door, twice. She normally knocked with three sharp raps - using two wouldn’t tip anyone off except for the Colonel.

The Colonel used his pen to tap on the desk. With his notebook in his other hand and his desk full of files and paperwork, he was the picture of innocence.

“Fuery’s been complaining to me all week about his new roommate from the south, Urkel. Apparently, he keeps bringing around his girlfriend, Caroline, and it’s keeping Kain up at odd hours. He’s able to crash with an old friend from the academy, Yousef, at his apartment, but Owen and Usain live there, too, so it’s getting a bit cramped. He might be a touch late tomorrow as a result.” Riza clicked her heels twice together as she lifted her arm to send her Colonel a perfect salute. “Goodnight, sir.”

When she left, Roy was laughing too hard to chastise her for insubordination.

~

The scream of trumpets, trombones, and saxophones mingling with the pounding of the drum created a heady soundtrack for this undercover mission. The club, Sway, was bursting at the seams with people, the dance floor bursting and spilling over with couples, the drinks flowing from the three bars set up around the two-story establishment.

And in the middle of it all were the new money, new-in-town Crenshaw siblings, Victoria and Howard.

( _“Howard?” You’re killing me, boss,”_ Havoc had complained about the name that morning, nursing a strawberry donut and a coffee.)

Riza rather wished that this establishment _wasn’t_ doubling as a cover for black market weapons and Cretian spies, because otherwise she definitely would have come back with Rebecca. As it was, Rebecca had given Riza a crash-course in dancing so that Riza could truly wow the crowd that night and catch the eye of Sway’s owner and the team’s person of interest, Nathan Witt. Intel told them he was attracted to three things: money, weapons, and beautiful blonde women.

Tonight, Riza embodied all three. Figure flaunted in a shimmering, sequined flapper dress in deep green, hair tied up and held in place with a white feathered headband (the feather hiding her coms headset). Her soldier’s hands were covered with elbow-length gloves, her neck bedecked with pearls. In lace dancing shoes (borrowed from Rebecca, a half-size too small), her face heavily made up, eyes shadowed in gold and black, her lips painted red, a tiny pistol holstered to her thigh and just visible as Havoc twirled his “sister” around the dance floor, Riza was a vision.

“Eyes on Witt,” Riza murmured to Havoc. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and expensive brandy, a scent that Riza supposed worked for women who weren’t her (see: Rebecca). His hand was steady and respectful on her waist. He sent her into a half turn, pulled her back, then into a full spin, her tassels following her momentum.

“I see ‘em,” Havoc murmured. “He’s getting his eyes on you.”

“Me, or the gun?”

“Depends on how close he gets.”

Riza barked out a laugh before quickly modifying it into something lighter, tinkling, carrying. She whirled around, catching her hand on Havoc’s arm. “I suppose that is the goal.”

The music ended, the cacophony petering off. The dancers applauded politely and shuffled about to switch up their partners before the next set. Riza glanced at her watch and saw it was her turn to scan their surroundings under the pretense of resting. Which she certainly needed, as the exertion and packed room were leaving her hair sticking uncomfortably to the back of her neck.

She stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey sour, neat, no make it a double, because Victoria Crenshaw did not need to worry about things like price or sobriety. The drink that the bartender handed her was so well-made she couldn’t taste the alcohol. Riza spun around on her barstool, lounging against the bar and lifting her drink to her lips, using the tiny straw she was given so as not to mess up her makeup and appear appropriately coquettish.

She would have preferred the height advantage of the upper floor, but that was reserved for when she or Havoc actually made contact with Witt. For now, she watched as Fulman and Breda, each dressed to the nines, whirled about the floor. Fulman looked as nervous and awkward as Riza had feared, but Breda was dancing like he came here every week. Riza smiled into her drink: even after these years, her crew could still surprise her.

On her second sweep of the room, she saw how Havoc was charming the stockings off of an admittedly gorgeous redhead, his head leaning in towards hers. Partially to keep her cover and mostly because it was annoying to have her backup focused on the wrong woman, Riza rolled her eyes and turned away. As she did so, she found herself peering through a gap in the crowd that gave her a direct line of sight to Witt’s table.

And Witt was looking right back at her. He wore an expensive pinstriped suit and a rakishly-tilted fedora with a red feather stuck into its rim. When she met his gaze, the appreciative smile on his face widened into something lusty and predatory. His gaze swept over her form - strong arms, long legs, pale skin, the tip of her pistol pointing out from under her skirt - and he nodded to himself as if she was presenting him something for his approval.

He looked at Riza like she was something to conquer. Riza suppressed a shudder and her instinct to shoot him a glare before he looked away in shame. Instead, Riza batted her eyelashes and feigned a blush.

Smirking, Witt rose to his feet. He started making his way to her, shuffling between chatting patrons and dancers. Riza took a long sip of her drink, aware of the implications of putting anything in her mouth with him looking at her (and ew, _ew,_ she felt gross just for thinking it) and ingesting as much whiskey as she could before she needed to put the drink down.

But before Witt could reach her, another figure materialized in front of her. Riza inhaled sharply and choked on her drink when she found herself face-to-face with the Colonel. She almost shot him on the spot.

Then she saw that not only was he here when he wasn’t supposed to be, but he was dressed to the nines, wearing a three-piece suit with his hair slicked back and shoes shiny. His vest was green with black embroidery that complemented Riza’s dress so perfectly he could have only planned it. The idea of Roy running out and somehow managing to find himself a tailored vest in the eight hours since Riza had selected this outfit with Rebecca would have made Riza laugh in another situation.

As it was, the way that tailored vest and shirt fit over his chest and shoulders, the way he smirked down at her, the way he smelled like a bonfire and brandy -

Her stomach did an entirely unprofessional leaping somersault. The whiskey brought a fiery blush to her cheeks. And when he asked her to dance, his voice low and sultry in that stupid _Colonel Roy Mustang, professional bastard_ mode -

“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be sitting on the side like this. Won’t you dance with me?”

-She was going to shoot him. This was it. She was really going to do it.

But Victoria would _never_ shoot a man as attractive as Roy _fucking_ Mustang, so Riza simply took another long sip of her drink and allowed the Colonel to pull her onto the dance floor as a new song started up. He pulled her in, closer than Havoc had, his palm broad and warm on her waist and the other soothing and warm in hers. They were pressed chest-to-chest on the crowded dance floor, close enough that they were almost cheek-to-cheek.

_(Cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hips to - oh, good Lord, she was going to kill him if she didn’t pass out first.)_

_“What,”_ Riza huffed into the Colonel’s ear, soft enough no one else would have ever heard them over the band and the din of the crowd, “the _hell_ are you thinking?”

“Can’t a Colonel sneak a dance with his favorite Lieutenant in the middle of a covert operation?” the Colonel asked her. His breath skated over her temple, stirring her hair. Riza fought twin, equally strong feelings of wanting to stomp on his foot and wanting to - she wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t going to be professional.

“If you have to ask, you know the answer to that, sir,” Riza bit out, falling back on titles to throw up that barrier between them. As if there were even a brick left standing when Roy - the Colonel - lifted his arm and spun her once, twice, before pulling her back into him.

The Colonel laughed aloud. “Fair enough. I _also_ thought that Witt would be much more likely to bite if he felt he had competition.”

Riza wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I hate these covert missions. I feel like a piece of meat.”

“I’m sorry,” The Colonel said. Riza knew he meant it. “We can follow different avenues in the future. Stakeouts, phone tapping.”

“Just send in Havoc or Fulman in a dress next time.”

“Done,” Roy agreed easily.

“You’re in a good mood,” Riza noted. “What else do I get if I ask?”

“Depends,” Roy responded, and just from the way his voice dropped a full octave Riza knew that she had made a mistake. “What do you want, Elizabeth?”

Riza peered up at him from under her lashes. He met her gaze with his, and the warmth and _heat_ in his dark eyes was something so entirely unexpected and yet _natural_ that Riza had to mentally remind herself, loudly and repeatedly, that they were in public, on a mission, with their entire crew and a person of interest in a criminal case watching them. That they had a job to do that was so much bigger than whatever this was between them (and she knew, she _knew_ this wasn’t just her, that _surely_ he must feel this, too).

Riza smiled up at him, knowing the expression was as bittersweet to him as it was to her. Gently, she said, “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. My name is Victoria.”

A pause. Roy’s smile could have broken Riza’s heart. “So it is. My apologies.” The song ended in a crescendo of brass instruments. Roy spun her out and pulled her back in, letting her turn and twist until they ended the dance with her back to his chest. For a moment, all she could feel was his warm weight against her and all around her. Into her ear he murmured, “Enjoy your evening. I hear there’s going to be a particularly interesting selection upstairs half-past ten.”

~

Their team caught Witt in the act of selling and distributing his contraband at eleven o’clock that night. It took three months for him to be sent to prison. Riza never spoke about the dance to anyone.

**xi.**

If Roy were asked, five to ten years down the line, when things started to really fall apart, when he started to finally understand the root of what was _really_ wrong in Amestris, it would have been this day.

There had been a phone call. Roy wasn’t sure who made it. But the information made its way up the chain, finally landing in their office. Roy had only known that the Lieutenant had picked up the phone, murmuring her standard, polite “yes?” and listening for the answer. The room had fallen back into its regular comforting, companionable silence.

“I see.”

Roy’s head snapped up. So did Breda’s, and Havoc’s, and once he noticed everyone’s attention moving elsewhere, Fulman’s. Only Fuery was oblivious, his headphones over his ears as he tinkered endlessly with a radio.

Roy knew he wasn’t overreacting when he heard the slight edge to Riza’s voice, whisper-soft like a drawing blade.

“We will get there as quickly as possible. Keep the guard there, and seal all of the entrances and exits. Do not let _anyone_ enter that building.”

The Lieutenant hung up the phone. Nothing had changed externally, yet somehow Roy could see - the way she held her shoulders tight and straight and still, the line of her jaw as she clenched it, the way she smoothed her face into carefully expressionless neutrality.

Roy hadn’t seen her like that in years, not since -

And the Lieutenant told them what had happened.

Shou Tucker. His annual exam. His daughter, Nina. The Elrics.

Fuery was too distraught to go to the house, and Roy mechanically ordered him to take the day. Havoc burned a small hole in his shirt when he zoned out from the news and dropped lit ash onto his chest. Fulman looked nervous and heartbroken. Breda was stoic but still capable. Roy put him in charge of handling the security of the crime scene and taking witness statements.

Roy took the Lieutenant to the scene with him. She automatically got into the driver’s seat of their military car, turning the ignition over and clenching the wheel with white knuckles. Roy watched her in the corner of his eye, taking in her terrible calm and the way her eyes had gone hollow.

“Do you have a problem with my driving, sir?” the Lieutenant asked.

“You don’t need to come with me,” Roy told her. “You don’t need to -” _You don’t need to relive this. You don’t need to see this._

“Is that an order?”

“No, of course not, but -”

“Then I’m going.” She used the tone that made Roy remember that, really, she was the one in charge here. Roy watched her for another moment before returning his attention back to the road.

~

News of Nina Tucker’s senseless death ran like wildfire through Command.

The halls were abandoned by the time Roy and the Lieutenant made it back to their office late that night. They remained so the next day, as seemingly every non-essential staff person took personal leave for the day. Roy noticed the few still in the building were giving him a wider berth than usual. It seemed that Tucker’s actions reminded them of the unnatural powers alchemists could tap into, were they so inclined.

Their team wasn’t up to their required number, but Roy didn’t have it in him to even argue when Fuery, then Fulman, and then Havoc called out. Breda came in, but he was so listless (he had a sister, Roy remembered, ten years younger than he, and Breda had informed him shakily that Nina Tucker bore an uncanny resemblance to her in younger years) that Roy sent him home anyway. He quietly resolved to lose the paperwork tallying these hours as personal leave time.

As such, only Roy and the Lieutenant sat together in their office as the noon bell rang time for lunch. Neither, it seemed, could bring themselves to move.

 _Could I have prevented this?_ Roy wondered. Could he have done something? He had expressed his concerns over Tucker’s mental capacity, over the pressure the higher-ups put on him to complete his research, his suspicions about the nature of Tucker’s work. _I could have offered him supports, connections, like the Elrics - I could have checked in - I could have - I should have -_

But he hadn’t. And now it was too late, and there was nothing he could do. Roy would not consider himself “past” Isvhal, not by any definition, but he was at least far enough away from those dark days to recognize he couldn’t tear himself down for a past that was set in stone and blood. He could only do more, be better, for the future.

But here, in the present - he could only sit, and watch, and do his paperwork quietly and without complaint as the Lieutenant was the quietest she had been in years. He felt terrible, sitting at his desk acting like all was business as usual when this case struck such a deep, personal chord with her -

( _A father gone distant and mad, turning his attention to the young alchemist under his care and neglecting his child. A father who kept his child tucked away in his dilapidated, filthy house. A father who used his child as an avenue to greater knowledge._

The similarities were uncanny. At least Nina Tucker had a dog.

 _A lot of good that did,_ Roy thought, and he felt sick all over again.)

And _then_ , because when it rained it poured, the phone rang, and the Alchemist Killer was back in town, and _fuck, fucking fuck, the Elrics were out there in this rain, fuck, fuck, fuck -_

He returned to his office an hour later, drenched to the skin with both his pride and his ass bruised from the Lieutenant tripping him in front of two dozen soldiers. She was lucky she was his favorite (his favorite what? Yes, just his favorite), or he would have been in an even fouler mood as he trekked puddles and muddy footprints over the carpeted office floor. Grumpily, he tugged his jacket off of his shoulders to hang it up in his closet. His white work shirt was soaked, as well, sticking uncomfortably to his back and chest, but he didn’t have a spare (unlike the Lieutenant, who planned ahead for everything).

There was a knock on the door, and after Roy barked “come in, come in, it’s not like we’re busy,” he sheepishly met the gaze of the Lieutenant.

“Ah, sorry, Lieutenant,” Roy said. “I didn’t mean to take my bad mood out on you.”

“I certainly hope not, sir,” the Lieutenant said, approaching him with a stack of files. Roy threw his head back and groaned pathetically.

“And what are _those_ for?”

“They’re -” The Lieutenant cleared her throat. “Incident report forms, sir. Twenty-four people learned today that Alphonse Elric does not have a body, so they will need to be dealt with immediately.”

“Fuck me,” Roy mumbled. His sopping wet bangs fell into his eyes, and he swiped them back impatiently. He flipped briefly through the stacks of forms for a minute or so, only to realize that the Lieutenant was still standing in front of him. “Was there anything else, Lieutenant?”

The Lieutenant’s expression had gone distant, her eyes slightly glassy and cheeks flushed pink. She blinked a few times, seeming to reorient herself. “No, sir.”

 _I really am pushing her too hard,_ Roy thought guiltily. He knew it was fruitless, but he offered, “Lieutenant, if you’re feeling unwell after yesterday and the downpour today, you are welcome to recover at home.”

“Will you be using personal time, sir?” the Lieutenant asked.

 _Cheeky, insubordinate minx._ “I will not.”

“Then I will stay, sir,” the Lieutenant said calmly. “Am I dismissed?”

“I suppose so.”

“Very good, sir,” the Lieutenant said, saluting him. She went to return to her desk. Roy watched as a single drop of rainwater trailed slowly, slowly down the nape of her neck to dip below the collar of her shirt.

Swallowing hard, Roy put the papers down on his desk. “I’m getting coffee.”

The rest of the day passed agonizingly slowly under the deluge of paperwork and rain. The Lieutenant left to stretch her legs sometime after nightfall, because her paperwork was perfect and done and Roy was stressed and exhausted and had more to do because he was a Colonel and the world hated him.

Distantly, there was a roll of thunder. The lights flickered, off, on, off, finally back on. Roy could sense a hell of a storm on the horizon. Something about his alchemy, his connection to and use of the air, gave him this one insight into the weather. He wasn’t surprised when, some twenty minutes later after a crackling bolt of lightning, the lights at last went out. Roy dug around in his desk to find an emergency candle provided for just these moments.

Roy sat back in his chair, feeling half a dozen small pops up his spine and neck. The clock on his desk read _23:04_. He was becoming a parody of himself. _Hardworking Colonel Mustang, obsessed Colonel Mustang, kiss-ass, brown-nosing Colonel Mustang, doesn’t do anything but eat and sleep and work and roast civilians alive._

(Riza - _Lieutenant Hawkeye_ had swung on the officer who had carelessly uttered the last one, Roy heard. Considering it had happened in front of Breda and Havoc, it was simply an official-unofficial rumor running rampant through Command.)

Roy grimaced. Speaking of becoming a parody of himself. If he wasn’t working himself to the bone, he was off somewhere with Hawkeye, both of them working themselves into exhaustion.

There was a quiet knock on his door. Too surprised to do anything but respond reflexively, Roy said, “Come in.”

The door opened, and in walked Lieutenant Hawkeye. At Roy’s expression of surprise, she sent him a small smirk.

“I suppose we’re just becoming parodies of ourselves, sir.”

“What are you still doing here?” Roy asked.

“Working,” Lieutenant said, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t the middle of the night and they both should have been home hours ago ( _separately_ , to _separate homes_ , as little as the scuttlebutt believed them). She approached his desk with a stack of files and paperwork, like it was twelve hours earlier or later than it was.

“You don’t need to be here so late,” Roy said.

Hawkeye lifted a brow. “You’re here.”

“You don’t need to be here just because I am,” Roy said.

“And yet, here I am. I know that. But there’s always more to do,” Hawkeye said. She tilted her head, stretching her neck. The light of the only candle in the room caught on the curve of her jaw, the hollow at the base of her throat. She looked like an angel, a statue.

She looked out the window. “I was planning on leaving just as the storm hit.”

Roy stood up, going to the wide window to look outside. The city below was a mess of black-and-gray, blurry shapes. The lamps were out as far as he could see, the only light coming from cracks of lightning across the sky.

“Do you like storms, Lieutenant?” Roy found himself asking. He thought back to those months with her, in her house, when he had thought he learned everything about her.

(She drank her coffee black and preferred a dark roast. She drank her tea with honey and a little lemon, if it could be had. Her favorite flowers were daisies, but she had never been able to recreate her mother’s garden because she had a black thumb like no one had ever seen. She taught herself to ride a bike, to shoot, to climb trees, to fish, to sew - anything a child raising herself could learn on her own. She wore the silver studs in her ears because they were the only remnants of her mother her father hadn’t tossed or burned in his heartbreak. She rarely wore perfume, but when she did, she preferred light, floral scents that complimented rather than covered the omnipresent scent of gunpowder. She had cut her hair short with a set of kitchen scissors when she was thirteen, just to see if her father would notice. He hadn’t.)

“I do, sir,” Lieutenant Hawkeye said. Her presence was warm and steady as she stood beside him. Roy itched to reach out and take her hand under the cover of darkness. “I would watch them roll in across the countryside. The sky would go green, then gray, then black, and then rain would hammer the windows like nails.”

“Sometimes the thunder would rattle the house to its foundations,” Roy remembered, smiling at the memory. He had sat in the library with her one afternoon, not speaking, just listening. At one point they had just given up on the pretense of studying together and sat side-by-side on the bench below the window, faces pressed to the glass. It was the only time in Roy’s memory that both of them had been allowed, even for an hour, to act like the children they were.

“Yeah!” The Lieutenant said, laughing at the memory. When they were alone, she opened up in a way she never quite did with the others. It wasn’t like the girl she used to be growing up, but in moments like these - Roy could see all of her, the girl and the sniper and the father’s keeper and the lieutenant and the dreamer, all at once. “I used to fear I would go into an older section of the house and find it collapsed.”

“Your father would have loved that.”

“I’m not sure he would have noticed.” Her tone was softer, wistful, just a bit sadder.

Roy couldn’t have that. “If he thought he could get me to clean it up? All he’d have to do is tell me he left a book under there and leave me to it.”

Riza’s - _the Lieutenant! You! Idiot!_ \- laugh was real and warm and Roy wanted to touch her _so much_. Anything would suffice: hold her, her hands, her face, run his fingers through her hair, up her back. The urge came over him so suddenly and maddeningly that Roy had to take a step forward, to the window, to stop himself from acting on it.

“Do you like storms, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” Roy said. His tone was clipped, voice strained. He cleared his throat. “I like the lightning.”

“I’m shocked, sir,” The Lieutenant said. Roy wasn’t sure if the pun was intentional or not - it probably was - but her dry tone made him chuckle, putting him more at ease even if the longing was by no means dispelled. If anything, it grew dizzying. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. “What about it?”

Roy looked over the city. “I can feel it coming on.”

If she thought he sounded insane, the Lieutenant didn’t say so. Instead she listened as he explained, “It’s similar to how the air feels right before I snap my fingers. The drop in pressure, the smell, that brief pause before hell is unleashed. The way the tension builds, and builds, and builds, until there’s a snap, and everything is released.”

Roy stopped. At some point during his explanation, his voice had dropped without his permission. Not to something sultry, that would be corny. But to something horribly _real_ , something _honest_ and _open_ and _vulnerable._

 _That’s what it’s like to be with you,_ he thought. It was a revelation, a rising pressure in the air. The air changing and pressure building to something unbearable, something only a snap would turn into a conflagration. It would burn them both alive.

_How fitting an end to you and your career that would be, Mustang._

“I...think I understand, sir,” Hawkeye said. He wondered if he imagined that hesitance. “The lightning builds, running recklessly ahead, heedless of what’s in its way or the damage it may cause.”

Roy opened his mouth to reply, a mock-offended retort on the tip of his tongue, but Lieutenant Hawkeye went on before he could speak.

“And always behind it is the thunder.”

Roy’s mouth snapped shut. He turned, looking down at her. The candle illuminated her profile, shining over the curve of her brow, flickering in her amber eyes.

Lightning flashed in the window outside, and Roy suddenly darted forward and kissed Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.

It was more of a press of lips against lips, Roy’s mouth molding against hers, but not pushing for more. His hands, bereft of his gloves, reached up to skitter his fingertips over the arch of her cheekbones, the swell of her cheeks, the planes of her temples, the solid support of her chin and jaw.

Her lips were warm, soft, and what little movement Roy may have fooled himself into thinking he felt in response tore away as Roy jerked back as suddenly as he had moved. Hawkeye’s eyes were wide as she stared up at him. It was the only time in his memory he saw Riza Hawkeye truly stunned.

“I’m sorry,” Roy blurted, which was something he had never said to a woman after kissing her (though, granted, he had never _jumped a lower officer_ before, so). “I just - I just wanted to do that, once.”

It was a poor apology with a terrible excuse. Roy anticipated a slap, or a harsh reprimand, or a resignation, or just a bullet in his temple, really, it all sounded good right now. But instead Hawkeye tilted her head, one brow lifting quizzically. “Alright. That was your once.”

Roy’s feet felt cemented to the floor as Hawkeye stepped closer to him. He wasn’t sure what the expression on her face was saying, but before he could ask or work himself into a tizzy over it, she said, “And this is mine.”

And then the thunder crashed outside, and Hawkeye - Riza - was stepping into him, warm, lithe body meeting all the planes of his, and she pressed her lips to his.

This - _this_ was a kiss. Slow and sweet, the delicious, exploratory sort of first kiss. She tasted like her favorite brand of tea. When he reached a hand up, fingers running through the nape of her neck to loose the long hair from its clip, felt her smile into his mouth, arch up into him, run her fingers up his jaw and into his hair, and oh, _oh, okay -_

And then something changed. Like a dam breaking, like the ground cracking open, or the lightning bolt hitting the earth, something that had spent so long building _snapped._ Roy’s hands curled into fists in her hair, tilting his head to kiss her like a man drowning, like he would never get to do this again (because he wouldn’t). It was all passion and tongue and teeth and absolutely no finesse or stopping to breathe. It was a shade too rough - his hands gripping her hair a bit too tightly, her nails scraping against the back of his neck hard enough to hurt - but that made it real, imperfect and messy and Roy couldn’t remember moving but then Riza was on his desk, her legs bracketing his and the sound that came from her throat was going to haunt him for the rest of his days.

He slid his mouth from hers, trailing kiss-swollen lips over her cheek, her jaw, down the slender column of her neck. She smelled like gunpowder and laundry detergent and smoke. It was dizzying, to spend so much time with a woman that she started to smell like him. It sent something wild and indulgently possessive spiking in his stomach.

 _I want,_ he thought as her fingers fisted against his collar, yanking until one button popped, then another. _I want, I want, I want -_

And then, like icy water had been tossed over them, Hawkeye pulled back. Her movements were so controlled that Roy experienced honest-to-God _whiplash_. Roy blinked his eyes open, positive he looked as dopey and kiss-stupid as he felt. Ever the professional, perfectly poised and in control, Lieutenant Hawkeye was peering up at him with a carefully schooled expression. Her stoic face was a hilarious contrast to her red, swollen lips, her mussed clothes, her wild hair, the hands he had on her hips and that she had on the bare skin of his collarbones. He felt like he was on fire. He felt like he would die if she pulled away.

But they had made an agreement - one kiss each, and that was it. Back to their normal, casual, platonic, officer-adjutant relationship.

Roy adjusted his shirt, palmed his hair flat. Lieutenant Hawkeye hopped down off the desk and tucked her hair back up into its preferred low bun.

He saluted. “Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

She saluted him back. “Goodnight, Colonel. Get some sleep.”

 _Fucking how,_ Roy wondered as he watched her back as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some lil notes:  
> \- i love parental!roy as much as the rest of fandom, but i also never quite got a parental vibe from roy? so many of his actions - being a major asshole up until ed and al are threatened - seem so much like a big brother relationship that that's sort of what i wanted to explore in this. roy grew up with 12 sisters - the Cain Instinct is strong.  
> \- it's 1920 i want them to dance and you know roy would want to dance with riza  
> \- imo, i don't think roy/riza did anything more than kiss until after the series. they're both still healing and learning and growing together. but i DO believe they were the type to be like "okay FINE let's kiss ONCE" but obvs that won't be enough, which we will explore.
> 
> thank you for reading!!!!! hmu @notantherwritingblog on tumblr!


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from envy to lust to wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arakawa: sorry fam hughes dies :(  
> me, slipping on sunglasses: i can't read suddenly, i don't know

**xii.**

Roy did not have to pretend to cry at the funeral.

The bright afternoon sunlight beaming on the cemetery, on another day, would have felt like a mockery. A kinder person than Roy would have said it was Maes looking down at them all from Heaven, asking them not to cry. As it was now, it felt like a metaphor for this entire facade: the military escort, the weeping crowd, the reporters, the priest, the pallbearers at the gravestone lowering the casket.

Only Roy, the Lieutenant, and Gracia knew that the casket was empty.

Roy and the Lieutenant knew because they had made the preparations; Gracia knew because it would have been too cruel to not tell her her husband had survived his attack. She had married a top intelligence officer; she knew how to keep her mouth shut.

Roy still shuddered to think of what might have happened had he not made it to Hughes in time. He had slept a bare four hours in the two days since Hughes had been declared dead - mostly from the mix of adrenaline and the bustle to make preparations for Hughes, but also because he couldn’t sleep without dreaming of those horrific minutes -

( _“It’s inside, the threat is inside the military,”_ Hughes hissed over the line. His voice sounded wrong, voice wheezy like he had been running, his breath catching like he was injured. There was a desperation there that sent a chill running down Roy’s spine. And worse, a horrible sort of calm, the kind of steadiness that Roy had only ever heard between explosions in Ishval.

_“Hughes, what are you talking about?”_ Roy asked. _“Where are you, I’m coming to get you -”_

_“Don’t!”_ Hughes cried over the phone. He coughed. It sounded wet. _“Don’t, you can’t, you can’t let them get you, too!”_

_“‘Them?’ ‘Too?’”_ Roy repeated. He had known soldiers like this after Ishval, whose minds and souls couldn’t carry the weight of their experiences and cracked. They had all had those bad nights, or weeks, or months (only the truly lost, like Kimblee, didn’t, Roy had always thought). But Hughes had his own innate goodness and wisdom and a love to return to to keep him on the level. _“Hughes, what -”_

Whatever Hughes was going to say was cut off. Roy heard voices at the other end of the line, straining his ears to catch what they were saying and cursing the shoddy city phone quality. He couldn’t hear a damn thing, and he shoved his ear against the phone as if that would help -

The gunshot was so loud that Roy nearly jumped out of his skin.

_“Hughes?”_ Roy yelled. _“Hughes?! MAES!”_

There was no answer.

Swearing, Roy dropped the phone to clatter loudly on the desk. He forgot subtlety completely as he sprinted full-out through Central’s empty halls. There was no time for subterfuge or stealth as he ran down the stairs, almost tumbling head-over-feet and snapping his neck on the front steps. He cycled through safe points in his brain, trying to think of where Hughes might have been calling from. Had he used one of their code ciphers? Had Roy missed some essential detail? Roy knew he was well and truly panicking as he raced through the city streets and wished Riza was here, with her steady mind that never lost its cool in these kinds of emergencies.

_Focus, Roy, dammit,_ Roy thought. He hadn’t recognized the phone number that came in, which meant that Hughes was calling from an outside line. They weren’t using any of the safehouses right now, so those were out. Which meant a public phone.

Roy used a lamppost to turn on his heel toward the phone booth nearest Central, his momentum whipping him around a street corner at breakneck speed. Were it not for his sturdy military boots, he would have twisted his ankle. But he saw the phone booth at the end of this street, bathed in a halo of lamplight, and through the open booth door, slumped and unmoving -

_“MAES!”_ )

“I’m sorry,” Roy said to Gracia and Elizia, and he meant it.

“It’s going to rain,” Roy said, dawning his cap and crying over Hughes’s grave, knowing the Lieutenant would never look down on him for his display.

“You better wake up, you prick,” Roy said that night in Dr. Knox’s basement, where his best friend was surrounded by machines and tubes. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and felt as if he had aged years in the past two days. “Leaving Gracia to take care of Elizia all on her own. Passing me up in rank. Not leaving anything to me in the will.” _Almost dying._ He swallowed more tears. “You’re a real bastard.”

That wasn’t fair, Roy knew. Hughes would rather die than hurt his beloved wife or daughter. Somehow, being alive but not able to see them or hear them or touch them, felt worse. Roy clenched his hands together, right thumb running over his left.

“What were you calling me for?” Roy demanded weakly. “What did you _find?”_

The door opened behind him. He didn’t have to look up or even move to know it was the Lieutenant.

“You know,” she said, her tone dry but gentle, “I’ve heard that talking to people in comas can keep them with us. But I’ve never heard of them talking back.”

“With Hughes?” Roy asked, laughing softly. It wasn’t even like anything was particularly funny; he was just so _tired_. “I can imagine him being a trailblazer like that.” They were quiet for a long time. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the watch in Roy’s pocket and Hughes’s miraculous, steady breathing.

“He left us a message, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “And I have no idea what it means, or where to start. I feel like I’m letting him down already.”

The Lieutenant didn’t say anything for a long minute. Roy sighed, knowing that she was already at her own wits’ end and plenty exhausted herself. She didn’t need to carry all of this weight on her own, and he felt selfish for even opening up just that much -

And then he felt a hand settle on his shoulder. Warmth diffused through several layers of clothing - her gloves, his jacket, dress shirt, undershirt, and yet he felt the touch as if it were skin-to-skin. It was a pressure unlike any he had felt for years (to succeed, to learn, to improve, to _climb_ ). It was warm and steady and grounding. Even though Riza was pressing down, gently, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.

“He told you what he could,” she said softly. “And that means that he knows you can work out the rest.” Her fingers curled, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “So go do it.”

Roy huffed out a soft laugh, reaching up to lay his hand over hers. He could feel the fine bones in her hand as he drummed his fingers over the back of her palm. He wished he could lace his fingers through hers, pull her to him; he wished she would wrap her arms around him from behind and hold him, her chin resting in the dip between shoulder and neck. If she did that, then maybe, for a few minutes, he could finally rest.

But they were professionals, and they had a job to do. Roy dropped his hand at the same time the Lieutenant retracted hers, and they stood up to go.

“You need a shower, sir,” the Lieutenant observed as they stepped outside into the night, walking to their car parked around the corner. “I’ll drive you to the officers’ barracks.”

“Trying to get me out of my dress blues, Lieutenant?” Roy asked, grinning down at her. “And here I always thought I would be the one to make the first move.”

The Lieutenant rolled her eyes. “When I make my move, you will know, sir.”

Roy laughed and almost tripped as he walked around to the passenger side door. “Wait. Did you say when?”

The Lieutenant made a soft hum and didn’t respond. Roy knocked on the window because she hadn't unlocked the doors to let him in. “Hey, Lieutenant? Lieutenant? Did you say _when?_ ”

**xiii.**

It hurt more than Roy expected it would.

The punch he swung into Edward Elric’s jaw, his own stinging in sympathy. The trembling confusion in Alphonse Elric’s voice. The stench of decay - not flesh, but too close to it, and Roy clung to his mask lest the sense memories pull him back under. The rage and heartbreak and betrayal and _disappointment_ in Ed’s eyes.

It hurt because Roy had maybe hoped that he had more credit than that with the Elric brothers after the past four years. It hurt because if the two could believe this, then he was doing his job near-perfectly (even as it unraveled, seemingly, by the day). It hurt because everything was going from bad to worse to horrific, unspooling all of Roy’s carefully laid plans and skewering them beyond recognition.

(The Homunculi; the Fifth Laboratory; the Philosopher’s Stone; Hughes’s attack; the Alchemist Killer; the military’s attempt at using the low-ranked, unconnected Maria Ross as its patsy; the list went on. Roy no longer recognized the military he was working from within to burn down. Some days he no longer recognized himself, having been so duped by it.)

But mostly, it hurt because these children had lost far too much, and far too many protectors, for so young an age.

_I wanted to protect you from this,_ Roy thought to himself as the two ran off into the night. It was a platitude that rang hollow between his ears.

_I didn’t want you mixed up in this,_ came to mind instead. He told himself over and over and over as he answered officers’ questions, fulfilled the requisite paperwork, swallowed the medical examiner’s scorn and Major Armstrong’s grief, and made the calls to make sure the (real) (alive) (unharmed) 2nd. Lieutenant Maria Ross was escorted safely out of the city.

The righteous anger and grief in Ed’s eyes, the way Al’s voice echoed high and hollow and tinny in his metal armor, haunted him anyway.

It was too late to do anything except go home. He should get back to his apartment, take a real shower, eat a real meal, sleep. Instead, his steps wound through the deserted, seedy Central streets until he found the place he wanted to be.

_I want to go home,_ Roy thought. He swallowed something like bile, like a sob. He unlocked the door. _I want to go home, I want this over, I can’t do this anymore._

The door swung open. Madame Christmas’s tavern was shut up for the night, the bar and tables scrubbed clean, chairs placed on top of tables so one of the younger girls could sweep at the end of the night. Roy went behind the bar, picked up a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass tumbler in the other. He found a back corner and sat back against the aged, plush booth.

He used his lighter to light the candle on the table. He considered burning his gloves, but that sounded too melodramatic. Not to mention they were surprisingly expensive. Roy heard a sound from the back. He sipped the whiskey without bothering to look.

“Tell me you didn’t kill that poor girl, Roy-boy.”

Roy lay his head back against the wall with a dull thud. He hadn’t heard his aunt even come down the stairs, and he was grudgingly impressed that her network of spies had learned about even this so quickly.

He tossed back the whiskey. “I didn’t kill her. She’s on her way - somewhere, now.”

He looked across the pub. The only other source of light in the large room was the ember at the end of her cigarette holder. Had she always looked so old?

Madame Christmas breathed in, held it, exhaled. The sickly-sweet smell of smoke filled the room. “Alright.”

She left. For a few minutes Roy thought she had gone back to bed, but instead she came out bearing two large bowls of something that smelled salty and hearty. She set the stew in front of her only son with the unspoken command eat.

“You’ve thinned out, Roy-boy,” Madame Christmas said.

Roy smiled thinly. “I’ve been busy.” The food smelled delicious, and the bread on the side looked fresh from the baker across the way. His stomach rolled at the thought of food. “Are we expecting company?”

Madame Christmas didn’t even blink when, as if on cue, the door opened, and in walked a shadowy, cloaked figure. They lifted the hood, and Roy choked on his whiskey when the single candle illuminated the blonde fringe and amber eyes of Riza.

“Lieutenant,” Roy said. His right hand made to salute her, seeming to forget that he was holding bread. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember this being part of the plan.”

“I received a call,” the Lieutenant said smoothly. She took a clean glass from the bar and approached the table, pouring two fingers’ worth into her glass.

“Who ratted me out?” Roy demanded, playing up at being more irritated than he really was. He knew both women knew he really meant _who do I need to thank this time._

“Alice called me,” Riza said. “The Madame gave me a key years ago.”

_“Years?”_ Roy choked again. Madame Christmas laughed aloud at him. “You didn’t give _me_ a key until I was sixteen!”

“And out of my house and hair, finally,” Madame Christmas chortled. “I always told you I liked this one the best.”

Madame Christmas winked up at the Lieutenant and stood. “Ooh, these old bones - I’m off to bed. The safe room is open, if you need it. There’s more stew on the stove. Miss Riza, you make sure this man eats.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Lieutenant agreed immediately, as if they were trading babysitting shifts.

“And you have as much as you want, too, you hear?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Madame Christmas looked down at her son imperiously. Then, before Roy could react, she pinched him hard on the cheek.

“For scaring me,” She said. With a last kiss, she went back upstairs.

The Lieutenant took the seat Madame Christmas left.

“Should I remind you who you report to, Lieutenant?” Roy asked dryly. She didn’t even look up from her stew.

“In my experience, sir, all men report directly to their mothers. I’m just respecting the hierarchy.”

Roy’s lips twitched. It was an unfamiliar feeling - when was the last time he had smiled? It felt like weeks. Months. For several long minutes, they fell into companionable silence. The only sounds between them were the soft clutter of cutlery on the clay bowls, the sound of bread tearing, the soft flicker of the candle on the table. It was the first time he had felt something like real peace since he first heard of the Alchemist Killer.

“I never wanted to hurt them”

The Lieutenant’s hand paused in its trek from the bowl to her mouth. She studied him from across the table, mind turning over the non sequitur. “Oh?”

Roy tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the stew. “The Elrics.”

_They’re children._ The Lieutenant had told him as much way back then, Roy mused as he ate. She had always been more cynical than Roy, or at least more realistic. She had seen from the beginning that there would be nothing but heartache for those boys as soon as they joined the military.

Roy had thought he was helping them access greater knowledge, resources, and materials to help them on their search for the Philosopher’s Stone. He had thought he was maybe even helping himself, bolstering his reputation as a recruiting agent by bringing the military’s attention to the prodigy bastard Edward Elric. He had, naively, thought he would have more _time_ to improve the military before the next generation of State Alchemists came through.

Edward Elric may have earned the accolade of youngest-ever state alchemist on his own merits, but Roy had dangled the ultimate carrot in front of a traumatized, injured child.

“They’ll understand,” The Lieutenant said softly.

Roy appreciated her words and wondered why he was surprised by her anymore. Riza Hawkeye was not interested in soothing him with useless platitudes. They both knew how far out of their control this mess had spiraled. She knew he had never wanted to hurt those children as much as she had known it was inevitable. And she knew that they were going to tell the Elrics when the storm blew over and it was safe to do so. And she knew how much it hurt anyway.

Roy looked up at her. The candle sharpened the contours of her face, a beautiful study in light and shadow. Her eyes were the same color as the mahogany table.

_We kissed,_ Roy thought suddenly. It wasn’t a memory, per se, given that he could never truly forget it when he thought about it every single day, all day, in the few weeks since it happened. But he watched the way her hair fell over her forehead and remembered what it was like to run his fingers through it. She ate and he remembered that he had tasted her lips. They had kissed once, and never talked about it after.

They had showed up to work the next day - the Lieutenant perfectly presentable, a cup of black coffee on her desk, and the Colonel fifteen minutes late like usual, and she saluted him with the rest of their team and Roy had saluted back and she handed him a fresh stack of files with a polite “sir” and Roy wondered if he had dreamed the night before, after all, except the candle wax on his desk damned them both.

_What would you say?_ Roy asked himself. He swirled his spoon through the remnants of his stew, turning the words over in his head. _Most superior officers don’t waste half their days thinking about kissing their subordinates - should we talk about this? Would that make things better? How would that conversation even go? “I know there is a lot going on and there are rules against this sort of thing, but I think about that kiss constantly. I know we agreed to one kiss each, but I want to do it again and again and again. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me, but please, give me something.”_

But that was more than she had agreed to give, and considering the way Roy already monopolized so much of her time and energy and life, he felt guilty asking for any more.

“What are our next steps, sir?” the Lieutenant asked. Roy wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry - he was talking himself out of begging for anything more from her and their relationship, and she was focused, as usual, on the task at hand.

_I would be so lost without you, Lieutenant,_ Roy thought, smirking to himself, and he leaned forward to talk to her about their next steps.

**xiv.**

_“How’s it going down at the shop today, Elizabeth?”_ the Colonel cooed at her over the phone. Riza was trapped between wanting to gag and rip her headset off and bash it against the tower’s stone wall, and melting into a little puddle of vaguely Riza-shaped goo.

It was _infuriating_. This time two months ago, he could have crooned all the sweet nothings that he wanted, and her face wouldn’t have changed a jot. Now, after that stupid, unnecessary moment of weakness (a kiss, said a voice in her head that sounded like an exasperated Rebecca, it was just a kiss, calm down), she spent half of her time around the Colonel trying not to remember it. The other half was spent telling herself all the reasons she couldn’t do it again.

And then, just when she was getting everything back under control - the equivalent of beating a bonfire of desire back into submission with a broom - she was sent out here to watch over Havoc and Fulman and Barry the Horny Chopper, and the Colonel decided now was the time to flirt with her over the _damn military line._

She was going to do it. She was going to shoot him.

“Things have been quiet so far, Roy,” Riza said, her affect high and light and cheery in a way she had mastered. “How are things at the office? Don’t you have other things to do, _Colonel Mustang_ , aside from talking to little old me?” _Like requisition reports, leave orders, intelligence reports to sift through, paperwork from the dozen soldiers who saw Alphonse Elric weeks ago, reviewing Breda and Fuery’s annual firearms training, and Fulman’s annual professional development, and and and -_

_“I do,”_ the Colonel said, his voice like warm, dripping honey, _“But those are so_ boring. _I miss you when you’re not around, Elizabeth. I’d much rather while away the day with your voice in my ear.”_

Riza wanted to _scream._ She could _hear_ his smirk. That stupid, smug, self-satisfied grin on his stupid, self-satisfied lips, lips that she had finally, _finally_ tasted, lips that she couldn’t get _off of her mind_ when now she knew what they felt like against hers, roaming down her neck, hands tangling in her hair and _oh yeah she was supposed to be providing backup to her colleagues and not daydreaming about ripping his clothes off with her teeth._

Screw bonfire. This was rapidly turning into a wildfire she contained only through grit and sheer force of will and strictly enforced professional boundaries.

But two could play at this game. “Oh?” Riza asked innocently. “I was thinking how much I’d prefer to spend the night with your voice in mine.”

From the clatter on his end of the line, it sounded like the Colonel had tipped himself back in his chair and fallen to the floor. In the ensuing chaos, Havoc mumbled, _“That was cruel, Elizabeth.”_

Riza smirked to herself. “Just fighting fire with fire.”

_“Just take care not to get burned, Elizabeth,”_ Havoc murmured just before the Colonel resumed his flirtatious nonsense.

Except then Riza saw a hobbling, shuffling figure meandering through the streets, and all of Riza’s attention went to that. It was a welcome respite for her nerves to shift into life-or-death combat rather than focus on Roy - _the Colonel_. It felt like slipping on an old, warm sweater, comfortable and familiar, when she calculated her shot exactly right and shot their interloper in the hand before reaching Havoc.

She was at her most comfortable and controlled when she could hover above the world, eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Threats that were clear and easy, that she could shoot away with her hawk’s eyes and sniper’s hands.

_“I heard a loud noise,”_ the Colonel murmured to her, gently bringing Riza back to the present. _“Is everything alright?”_

Riza reloaded and cocked the rifle as smoothly as she tied up her hair every morning. “A customer got fresh with Jacqueline. I slapped them around a little.”

The Colonel laughed, warm and low and familiar. _“You don’t mess around, Elizabeth.”_

Riza opened her mouth to reply, but then she froze. She could hear slow, heavy footfalls, steadily climbing the stairs towards her.

Riza sighed. “I’m going to have to call you back, Roy. I’ve got a customer of my own.”

Movement flickered out of the corner of her eye; in a single smooth motion, Riza had turned on her knee, setting up her shot, and fired. The rifle kicked back against her shoulder, just a tad unwieldy when used at such short range. The bullet found its home in her target’s shoulder, hitting so hard her target stumbled backwards. All of that was normal.

What _wasn’t_ normal, what was unexpected and horrifying and terrifying, was the red crackle of electricity that erupted from the bullet wound. Her target slowly rolled himself into a sitting position. He grinned at her, wide and vacant, with dull, dead white eyes.

He stood, seeming to tower over Riza’s seated position although he was in fact quite short and rotund. In the dying light of the setting sun, his eyes took on an unholy red glow.

The bullet wound in his shoulder was gone as if it had never been.

Riza adjusted herself into a better position, firing round after round into this mysterious interloper. _Bang._ A headshot. _Bang._ In the chest. _Bang._ A second in the chest. _Bang._ Through the right eye. _Bang._ The temple. Faintly, she could hear Roy screaming her code name through the headset - loud enough to carry through the hallways at Central, damn him - and she wished she could snap back, tell him to _shut up, I’m fine, keep your cool._

Riza could see every single one of her shots would have killed a normal target. Yet this man - this _creature_ \- had survived six lethal shots in a row, and he was still moving toward her. Thick, meaty arms swooped down and hefted her off her feet like she was a toy. Broad, flabby palms and thick fingers wound all of the way around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Her toes barely scraped the ground.

Riza dropped her rifle. One hand went to a man’s wrist, scratching and clawing for purchase, trying to release some of the pressure on her neck. The other went to the gun she had holstered securely on her hip. Again, she emptied a full cartridge of eight bullets into this creature’s bulbous, fleshy head. Again, the creature seemed unaffected. He just kept beaming up at her with that vacant, childlike grin.

Red, static-like electricity shuddered across his face, and as she watched, all of his wounds closed. He asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”

He pulled her towards him, fat mouth opening and tongue lolling. She caught a blast of rancid breath and a flash of a tattooed tongue as her vision started to flicker. _“Do I get to eat you now?”_

The next few moments passed by in flashes. Black Hayate, her dear, darling boy, appearing as if from nowhere and biting at Riza’s attacker; the man flinging Riza against the wall as easily as if she were a ragdoll, her head and back snapping against the stones; Fuery appearing like a slight, nervous avenging angel, tossing her a gun; Riza twirling it in her fingers, measuring its weight, and firing.

Riza had counted every bullet she ever fired. She needed to, for paperwork and requisitions. She did it by rote now, by habit. And she counted over twenty shots that hit this thing. Every single one hit its lethal mark.

_You should be dead,_ Riza thought, horrified, more scared in that moment than she had ever been in her life. Her feet were glued to the floor as this thing shambled towards her and Fuery. _How are you not dead?_

And then there was a snap, soft and yet so loud next to Riza’s ears - a snap, and this creature was thrown back in a blast of fire, blown out the building and down half-a-dozen stories.

There was a long, ringing silence in the room. As one, Riza and Fuery slowly, slowly turned to see the Colonel standing in the doorway, half-leaning against the door jamb to remain standing. He was panting heavily, sweat trickling in drops down his face. He tilted his head, sighing in quiet relief.

“I almost didn’t make it,” He said softly.

Riza gaped at him. Her brain was still catching up on the past few minutes as it took in the situation. He was standing close to her, still panting from running. He must have sprinted through Command, to the car, broken every speed limit and blown every stop sign and red light to get here in less than three minutes, she realized. Because he had heard her getting shot at.

_Of all the stupid, idiotic, foolhardy, careless -_ Riza’s mind spun, lack of oxygen and shock and stress getting to her. She wanted to throw him down those stairs behind him, push him against the wall and kiss him until he forgot his own name, shove him on the nearest horizontal surface and have her wicked, furious way with him.

But she couldn’t do any of that in front of Fuery, so she decided to yell instead.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” She demanded. To his credit, Roy - the _Colonel_ , maybe Ed was right to call him _Colonel Stupid_ or _Colonel Dumbass_ \- looked confused and a little shamefaced at her outburst. He said nothing as Riza pointed a finger at him, poking his chest. “ _Why_ did you leave your post? The entire purpose of this was _not_ to throw suspicion on you! But _no!_ You had to sprint down here and just -” She gasped in a deep breath. Her throat was sore and raw from her near-strangulation as she demanded, _“Are you a complete idiot?”_

“Yes!” Roy snapped back at her. His face looked annoyed, but his eyes were so full of relief Riza felt a little bad for taking out her overwhelmed state on him. “I’m an idiot, happy?”

“No!” Riza cried. “Not particularly!”

“Well, there’s not much I can do about that. The damage is done.”

Riza opened her mouth to tear into him again, but Fuery’s voice interrupted them both from devolving into childlike bickering. It reminded Riza that she had more important things to attend to than yell at the Colonel for being stupid.

The Colonel ordered Fuery to stay behind and pick up Riza’s watchpost. Riza ordered Black Hayate to stay with Fuery and resolved to make him a steak dinner (her dog, not Fuery).

Their walk down six flights of stairs was tense. Riza could tell the Colonel was irritated, either with her yelling at him or his recognition that they would now need to work up some new story for why the Colonel rushed like a madman through Command and the Central streets (most likely it was both).

“Colonel,” She said softly.

The Colonel didn’t stop moving as he sullenly said, “What is it?”

He sounded like a pouting child. Riza bit back a smile. “Thanks for saving us back there.”

“Tell me later. Let’s just stay focused on the mission now,” He said. He ducked his chin in that awkward way of his that he did when someone heaped praise on him that he didn’t feel he deserved, and he thought the best way to hide from it was to hide his chin in his collar. This time, Riza couldn’t stop the smile from leaking through.

But as they went to go down another flight of stairs, Riza’s breath caught in her bruised throat, and she started coughing heavily. The Colonel spun around on the third step down, peering up at her with such real, naked concern in his eyes that Riza almost felt guilty for making him worry.

“Lieutenant?” He asked. “Are you injured?”

Riza coughed a few more times, wincing at the pain in her throat. Her hand reached up to her neck. “I’m - okay,” she said, trying to clear her throat. “I just -” she stopped herself. “We need to keep moving.”

“You just what?” The Colonel asked, because he was the most caring and stubborn man Riza had ever met. He looked her over, sizing her up. “Why are you holding your neck, Lieutenant?”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“That’s an order,” the Colonel snapped, his eyes flashing.

Riza wanted to snap back at him for pulling rank to get his way - which he never did, except for when the circumstances were truly dire or he needed to make a public show of being a prick - but she was tired, and coming down from a life-or-death situation, and her neck _really_ hurt. She knew that he would only worry more about her if she didn’t answer his question, and they couldn’t afford to have him anything less than focused right now. So, not meeting his gaze, Riza tugged at the fabric of her turtleneck, pulling it down and aside to show the Colonel the angry red marks she knew were already blossoming under her fair skin.

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I assume this was that creature’s doing.”

As if anyone else could get close enough to her to do that. “Yes, sir.”

The Colonel reached up, brushing his gloved fingers over the marks. The fabric was wonderfully cool against her damaged, heated skin, the texture sending chills down her neck and spine. She took a short breath, schooling her face to remain placid. She stared resolutely ahead, over the top of Roy’s head as he examined the bruises.

“I’ll kill him,” The Colonel breathed. There was something low and dangerous in his voice. It sent equal parts dread to her stomach and liquid heat somewhere a bit lower.

“It’s worse than it is.”

“ _Bullshit,_ it is,” The Colonel swore disbelievingly.

Riza looked at him for that one, arching one brow. “We should get back to the mission, sir.”

The Colonel looked up and met her gaze. For a moment, he had the same determined, wild look in his eyes that he had before he’d kissed her weeks ago. In another breath it had passed. Riza wondered if she really was losing it.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he said, and he led them down the rest of the way.

**xv.**

_I’m going to start a petition,_ Roy thought as he stared up at the dirty, smoke-stained ceiling of this room in the Third Laboratory. _It’s going to be titled… ‘Leave Roy Mustang Alone.’ Or... ‘Let Roy Mustang Have A Damn Break.’ I will go around with a clipboard, and I will ask everyone to sign it. Alphonse will sign it, Edward will laugh at me, and Hawkeye will tell me to get back to work and actually focus if I want anything to happen._

The thought almost made him laugh weakly. His injured side spasmed at the movement, blood trickling between his fingers no matter how he pressed down on it.

“Havoc,” Roy snarled, slurred the word. Everything hurt. Everything felt _wrong_. He was simultaneously too hot and _far_ too cold. He was dizzy in a way that compared to his drunkest nights. He coughed and he felt blood bubbling up his throat, dribbling over his lips. It was metallic and cloyed over his senses. _“Havoc!”_

There was no answer. Roy turned his head in Havoc’s general direction. Havoc was on his back, in the same position as Roy, his face ghostly pale with a light sheen of sweat over his forehead. Blood pooled around him as the piercing injuries left by Lust’s claw attacks slowly oozed out onto the floor.

His chest was moving, but only just.

How had things gone this far south, so _quickly?_ Maria Ross’s “death,” that creature attacking Riza and Fuery this afternoon, this impromptu trip to this lab...it was a whirlwind of events that felt like they had lasted months, but in reality, it had been less than two weeks since Hughes’ attack started this chain of events.

“Havoc, wake the hell up!” Roy yelled. Yelling sent a white-hot flare of pain down his side and he gagged on it. Panting, he said, “Havoc, you _fucking_ bastard, I’ve ordered you _not to die._ Now get the hell up!”

Still nothing.

Roy’s vision was starting to blur on the edges. He tried to snap his fingers, only to remember that his gloves were ruined.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He pressed his palm over his side, groaning at the pain. Blood squeezed between the gaps in his fingers even as he tried to staunch the flow. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

_Think, think,_ Roy thought. His breaths hissed through his gritted teeth. He tried to slow his breathing, trying to hold off on panicking. He wished Riza was here - she never lost her head or acted impulsively in an emergency. _You need to stop the bleeding. To stop the bleeding, you need to cauterize the wound. To cauterize the wound, you need a spark and a circle. How do you get the circle?_

Roy cast around, looking for a sharp object. He remembered his standard-issue army knife notched into his jacket pocket. With shaking hands, he reached for the handle, tugging it out and flipping it in his hand. He needed to keep his hand steady, lest he tremble or jolt and create nothing but a jumbled mess of scratches on his hand.

He grit his teeth against the pain as he started to move the knife. Fortunately he knew this circle from memory. As he drew he could picture a much younger, less damaged Riza receiving her tattoo of this symbol. The knowledge that he, at last, would carry this with her hardened his resolve. When he finally finished the circle he dropped the knife from his trembling, fumbling fingers. With his free hand, he tugged at his shirt, ripping the buttons on the way down.

“Alright, Mustang,” Roy mumbled to himself. Blood trickled weakly from his mouth, out from his fingers. He dug into his pocket for his lighter. “You have the circle, now…”

The bleeding. Saving Havoc. Finding the Lieutenant. Roy grit his teeth.

_Equivalent exchange,_ Roy thought. _This is the scale balancing back. This is your penance._

“On three,” Roy breathed. He wished Riza was there _so badly_. “One, two -”

He snapped his fingers on two before he could even involuntarily brace himself. It took five solid seconds for his brain to process the sensation, but all of a sudden his entire side was in awful, horrific pain, so hot it was cold, and the _smell_ in the air - blood and smoke and something like cooking meat, all of it so reminiscent of Ishval that Roy had to turn his head and retch onto the cement floor as his vision flickered in and out.

Roy was not sure how he stayed conscious. But he did, even as his bones felt like they had been replaced with rebar and his muscles with cement. He crawled through his and Havoc’s blood, wincing as his cut hand stung with every movement.

“You’re gonna have a wicked scar,” Roy muttered to Havoc. “Don’t bitch at me about it when you wake up.”

_When._ It had to be when.

Fortunately, Havoc was solidly unconscious from the blood loss at this point, and Roy was able to cauterize the wound. It was enough to keep Havoc from bleeding out more, but they needed to get him to a hospital as soon as possible.

Roy took a long rattling breath and ran through his mental checklist. _Make a circle. Stop the bleeding. Get to the Lieutenant._

_Get to Riza._

With Herculean effort, he dragged himself to his feet. For several moments his vision went black, Roy listing heavily against the wall. He slowly dragged himself down the hallway in the direction of Lust’s trailing blood drops. In the middle distance, he could hear the sounds of fighting and crashing.

_Go on, keep moving, you have to -_ Roy thought, stumbling against the wall. He needed to get to the Lieutenant. He couldn’t lose two of his people tonight. He couldn’t bury another friend - for real this time.

Images of Maes’s body flashed in his head, this time replaced with Havoc’s ghostly pale face devoid of its smirk, with Riza’s unseeing eyes and the purplish-red bruises wrapping around her throat. Roy picked up the pace even as his legs shuddered beneath him.

_Come on,_ Roy thought, _Come on, you lout, come on…_

A bloodcurdling scream echoed down the hallway. It sent chills down Roy’s spine. A woman’s scream. _Riza._

It was - _agony._ He heard everything he had never wanted to hear from her in her shrieks - pain and loss and desperation and denial and bone-chilling _rage._ The cacophony of gunshots mixed with her shrieks echoing down the hall made him hurry his stuttering pace - was she injured, dying? Were they torturing her?

The sounds faded into murmurs, into sobs that clawed at his insides. Alphonse Elric’s voice echoed down the hallway. But Roy’s ears echoed with Riza’s screams. He had never heard Riza sound like this, this _defeated_ , this gutted. Not under the thumb of her father or in Ishval or after the loss of Nina Tucker. This was a yawning chasm of grief so monumental that Roy feared losing her to it if he didn’t find whatever it was that was causing her this pain and _burn it to ash._

He stumbled into the light, taking the scene in as his head spun:

Lust, with her back to him, looking none the worse for wear despite what had sounded like three handguns’ worth of bullets all hitting their lethal marks.

Alphonse Elric, suit of armor shredded over his chest and arms, standing sentinel in front of Riza.

And Riza, collapsed to her knees, her face ashen and tears rolling down her face, looking as if the world had just been ripped out from under her feet.

Alphonse knew what to do just in time, clapping and raising a stone barrier in front of the most important person in Roy’s life and clasping her tightly against his metal body.

_You,_ Roy thought, eyeing Lust’s destroyed back with disgust. Already the sickly, red, crackling light of the Philosopher's Stone was healing her. _You did this to her. You hurt her._

He spoke and he hardly recognized his own voice - throaty from his retching and screaming and the _wrath_ that sent adrenaline spiking through him anew. It was anger so far past debilitating that it left him with a calm, ruthless clarity.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Until Lust was cinders, was ash, was dust, her voice a lingering echo.

Roy barely saw the whirling cinders. He focused his attention on the stone barrier Alphonse had erected, and there, stumbling from behind it, ghostly pale but relatively unharmed, beautifully, miraculously alive - _Riza._

_She’s safe,_ Roy thought. _She’s alright, she’s safe._

And his knees gave out.

“Colonel!” He heard her cry - because, yes, that was what they were, the Colonel and the Lieutenant, and there she was above him, her eyes wide and wet and beautiful, she was so beautiful.

“Thank you for looking after my subordinate,” Roy said. He knew he was woozy from blood loss and adrenaline and the battle, and if asked he would say that was why he was smiling dopily up at Alphonse.

“Uh, yeah,” Alphonse said distractedly, sounding confused about why Roy was thanking him when Roy had two holes in his stomach. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

Now that the threat had been dealt with, Roy’s mind was starting to slip away as his consciousness faded. He felt like he was speaking from across a great distance as he said, trying to impress upon them the severity, “Havoc - needs a doctor…”

His world faded to black. The last thing he saw was Riza Hawkeye’s face.

~

“I need to sit down,” Roy said.

The Lieutenant eyed him. She had been side-eyeing him all day, telling him without words that he was pushing himself too hard and he wasn’t going to recover as quickly as he needed to if he kept trying to work. As if they had even a moment to spare, what with Hughes’s attack and Maria Ross’s fake death and Lust’s real one and Havoc’s near-death, and now everything was messed up and plans needed to be redrawn because Havoc was out of the equation given his newfound paralysis. Roy dug through medical journals, looked up medical or surgical alchemy, and kept coming back to the same conclusion: there was nothing short of a miracle that would return feeling to Havoc’s legs.

A miracle, or a philosopher’s stone.

So now Roy was on the hunt for one, too, running himself so ragged he needed to rest on his way back to his hospital room. He sat heavily on a bench in a shadowed side hallway. The hydration bag dangling from its metal stand wiggled dangerously before the Lieutenant steadied it with a hand.

The Lieutenant sat beside him, body situated between Roy and the open hallway. Roy could _feel_ the waves of “I told you so” radiating from her. He was still too grateful for her being alive, safe, and whole to even pretend to be irritated.

For several minutes they sat in silence. Riza stared placidly straight ahead, but Roy tilted his head, ostensibly to keep and eye on the corridor but really just to watch her. She was mere feet away, but somehow the distance felt so much greater from all the things they could not say.

Roy could not tell her that his nightmares echoed with the sound of her screaming, wrath and rage and heartbreak at the idea of losing him. He didn’t even know how to tell her he had heard her - to do so felt like peeling open a fresh scab. He didn’t even have the words to tell her what the depths of her care meant to him, how it felt to know that she cared for him that deeply. That she was as distraught at the idea of losing him as he was at the thought of losing her.

He also couldn’t tell her that his angry tirade at her earlier that day was brought on by that realization. Ordering her to never give up on living because the thought of a world without Riza Hawkeye was, to him, a fate worse than death.

It was dangerous, this thing blossoming between them, growing and spreading like a flower taking root in concrete. They were powerful apart but unstoppable together, but to remove one of them from the equation would throw the formula off completely. Roy looked at her in that shadowy side hallway, studying the bags under her eyes and the high collar of her turtleneck, and knew that they could reshape Amestris into the force for good it could truly be, so long as they were together. Partners for change.

But he wanted more. She was his bodyguard, his protector, his confidant. His best friend, the keeper of his secrets and his soul. He trusted everything in the cradle of her capable, steady hands. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe he was a fool to think it ever could have been.

“Colonel?”

The Lieutenant was studying him. She had leaned her head back against the wall in her weariness, her position mirroring his. Her bangs swooped over her forehead. She asked, “Are you feeling alright?”

“A little lightheaded,” Roy said. It wasn’t even a lie.

“Are you feverish?”

_Not for the reasons you think,_ Roy thought. He shook his head. “No. It’s not an infection. It’s just been...a _very_ long past few days.”

The Lieutenant laughed softly. “It has. When’s the last time we got a full night’s rest?”

Roy couldn’t even begin to guess. “Not since the Alchemist Killer resurfaced, I think.” He thought. “Or Hughes.”

“Not since Macdougal,” the Lieutenant added.

“Not since Fullmetal joined the fold.”

The Lieutenant laughed aloud that time. It made her look like herself for the first time in weeks, smile meeting her eyes. Roy was too tired to hide the way he smiled back. The Lieutenant said, “I seem to remember issuing you several warnings about Edward’s readiness for the military.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Roy asked.

“I don’t need to. Edward is here. I think that makes my point much more effectively than I can articulate,” the Lieutenant said innocently.

It was funny. She was funny. And Roy wanted to laugh, but he was watching her smile and speak and he was suddenly struck again with the knowledge that she had nearly died twice last night. He got six separate speeding tickets and blew two different covers doing so, burning a hole in his pockets and creating so much more work for himself, but he would do it all again and more to know that she was alive and safe. Not that she needed him to protect her - she could hold her own as well as he could (and usually better, if he was honest), but - but she had almost died, and she would have, had Roy not made it in time.

And that scared Roy more than anything else in Amestris at that moment. Until last night, he had a strict set of priorities: ascend the ranks, become Fuhrer, shift Amestris from a military dictatorship into a representative democracy. Atone for Ishval and make reparations. But now he looked at Riza Hawkeye and wondered how exactly she fit into all of those plans, wondered if she still _wanted_ to be part of them. She hadn’t signed up for _this._

How had he muddied the waters so much he couldn’t even _ask_ her what she wanted from him?

The Lieutenant spoke, interrupting his runaway, incoherent thoughts. “May I see your hand?”

This was not something Roy expected, but he acquiesced wordlessly, holding out his injured hand the Lieutenant. She turned toward him, propping one leg on the cushioned bench to see him better. She accepted his palm, cradling it gently in hers. Her fingers were gentle and cool on the flushed red skin. Chills raced up his arms as she traced her fingertips over the perfect circle, the triangles, the salamander.

She had always touched him so gently, like he would break or push her away, even when they were children. Like physical touch was a line of intimacy they couldn’t cross, much as they wanted to.

_Burn her tattoo off her back and ask her to shoot you if you ever become an irredeemable bastard, but you draw the line and hand-holding,_ Roy thought wryly.

The Lieutenant's head dipped. The fringe of her bangs fell like a curtain over her eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said softly. Roy knew he did not imagine the slight tremor in her voice. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

“I ordered you to go with Alphonse,” Roy reminded her.

The Lieutenant’s head snapped up, and she him to the quick with a glare. “I’ve also been ordered to protect you.” Her fingers tightened around his hand. “I didn’t _want_ you to have to carry this. That was the _point_ of everything.”

“You carry it,” Roy argued. “Why can’t I?”

“I _chose_ to carry it,” the Lieutenant snapped. Roy had to bite back his own scathing commentary on that statement.

“So did I,” Roy said fiercely. He clenched his fist, feeling the cuts pull taut. “And I would do it again, Lieutenant, if it meant keeping you - or any member of this team - safe.”

The Lieutenant did not comment on his shoddy cover. Her face shuttered again as she looked down at his hand. She traced the transmutation circle again, ran her fingers over his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Roy wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for. For losing faith, for failing him (as if she ever could), for kissing him back? For all of it?

“I’m sorry, too,” Roy said. He swallowed down the ache that resonated in his chest. He took a deep breath to steady himself, knowing that he needed to get this _thing_ between them, blooming in his chest and constricting his heart and lungs, under control. They had so much more work to do before they could begin to untangle this messy knot they had made of themselves. “Lieutenant?”

“Sir?”

“Will you get me my uniform?”

**xvi.**

Were she asked to list the many qualities of Roy Mustang - the good, the bad, the annoying - one that Riza always forgot was _silly._

It was easy to forget when their jobs were so serious and the situations often dire, especially so since Hughes’s attack. One could forget that the Colonel was the same man who once burned his hands pulling dinner out of the oven without his gloves on; or who once made a second desk with all of his backed-up paperwork, complete with coffee maker and a fish tank he had procured from _somewhere_ ; or who liked to lay on the floor with Hayate when he thought no one was looking, trying to “see the world through the little peoples’ eyes.” It was easy to forget that he could make her laugh just as easily with a wry comment as he could with his charming, debilitating lack of common sense.

“This is Sector Three patrol,” Roy said into the microphone, hand pinched over his nose. “We’re under attack from Scar. Requesting immediate backup. Wha - no - _aaaaaaargh!”_

He trailed off, flipping the radio switch to simulate the cutting of the line. He looked like a child in a candy store as he giggled - _giggled,_ like he was crank-calling a neighbor and not screwing with the military - and flipped through pages. “Okay, who’s next, who’s next?”

Riza could count the number of times she had seen him truly smile in the past month on one hand. Which was why she only looked on with a fond, exasperated smile - light on the exasperation, heavy on the fondness, not that he could see it - as he found the next military line. If giving Sector 17 the runaround would help the Elrics and make Roy smile, even for a few minutes, she wasn’t going to complain.

(Well, maybe a _little_ , if at least to give the impression to the Colonel and everyone else that she wasn’t mooning over him as much as she was).

Once Central was good and confused - once they heard word that Winry was safe in custody - Riza stood to back up the children. She liked skulking in the shadows as little as Roy - _the Colonel_ \- did, but it was best for all of them if they stayed out of the fray. Years of work could be unraveled in just a moment if the wrong person saw them in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Riza dug through their safehouse closet, looking for anything that might help her disguise. A long white jacket would cover her black turtleneck and shoulder holsters. The spare set of glasses would serve as just enough confusion for her to slip away were she to run into anyone she recognized (after she poked the lenses out, mentally apologizing to Fuery and making a mental note to replace these spares). At last, she reached up and loosed her hair from its long clip, shaking it out to fall in soft waves down her back. She pretended not to hear the slight catch in Roy - _Colonel Mustang’s_ \- voice as he instructed her on where to meet, not to be seen.

Dammit, when had everything gotten so _complicated?_

“Don’t be seen,” the Colonel told her, and Riza heard _be safe._

“And sir, please stay out of the field,” Riza said, and she knew he heard _if you get hurt again I will tie you to that hospital bed myself._

“I _know_ , Lieutenant,” he said, and she wondered if she was supposed to hear the fondness and irritation and soft laugh in his voice. She wondered if it really was a sin to want to wrap herself in that laugh like a warm blanket, if something that felt and sounded so right could be so wrong. “Now go.”

~

Here’s something else Riza taught herself growing up, something she had never told anyone but Roy: she knew how to hotwire a car.

She’d gone through a short-lived rebellious phase at fifteen, just before Roy came to live with them. A tired, weary little child who had snapped and broken into a car just to see if she could. The owner had happened upon her before she could take it for a spin, however, and Riza was fortunate enough to run away fast enough they never got a good look at her. She had been too nervous to ever try it again.

But now everything was falling apart, so she found an unattended car three blocks away from their safehouse and had it running in about twenty seconds. Then she drove like hell through the streets, her hair streaming behind her, gun in her hand, and she felt in control for the first time since Roy - _she was slipping again, damn, the Colonel_ \- had kissed her.

It wasn’t hard to find the boys, as usual: follow the trail of transmuted stone and building, move towards the sound, and she would find the Elrics. They were in a train yard, because they hadn’t messed with the railway system lately apparently, and she shot through Scar’s leg ( _again, why could no one ever hit him? It wasn’t that hard_ ) as she brought the car to a screeching halt.

She looked over the crowd of MPs, a confused and flustered Edward, a stoic but rapidly understanding Alphonse, an oddly shirtless Prince Ling Yao, and in the middle of it all, the strange creature that had attacked Hawkeye two days ago, bound up in cables as thick as her wrist.

_I,_ Riza thought to herself, _deserve a damn raise._

Tires squealed as she peeled off in the car, winding through streets she knew like the back of her hand to avoid the military blockades. She assured the Prince that she would get them to a safe location, one far from prying eyes where they could tend to his wounds and regroup and maybe finally find out _what was going on._

“My - my friend!” Ling yelled over the roaring engine. Despite the car’s rapid turns, he remained standing, hovering over her to yell in her ear. He was young, she realized, younger than she had anticipated. From the crack in his voice as he begged her to go back for his friend, he sounded Edward’s age.

“There’s no _time_ ,” she said, trying not to snarl it, because it wasn’t this dignitary’s fault that her country was a cesspool of corruption and nonsense that would kill her as soon as look at her if they caught up to this car.

“Make time!” Ling yelled. “She could be _dying_ now! She’s still waiting there for me!”

The princely demands weren’t what cracked her resolve. It was the way his voice went high and reedy, cracking on the words _dying_ and _she’s still waiting_. As if there was nothing in the world that frightened Prince Ling Yao of Xing more than losing this girl.

Riza thought of Roy laying in a pool of his own blood, of her father’s transmutation circle carved into his own hand, of him pinching his nose to fool the MPs and grinning like a teenager, and grit her teeth.

“Make it quick.”

The car nearly turned over as she drifted around the corner.

~

“Are you _kidding me?”_

Dr. Knox, fed up with all of their bullshit by now, greeted them with his usual cheer as he stomped into the abandoned house. He looked around, nose wrinkling in distaste. “No electricity, no running water, the place abandoned for who knows how many years, and you want me to do _medicine_ in this hovel?”

“That is preferred to the alternative,” the Colonel said dryly.

Dr. Knox grumbled something unflattering under his breath. “And you dragged her through the sewers...don’t blame me if the infection kills her.”

“But - you can’t!” Ling was sitting on the ground, looking up at Dr. Knox with his eyes, so like Roy’s, wide with horror. He sounded so much younger than he was when she said, “She can’t die, Doctor, she - it’s my fault this happened, that she lost her arm, that we’re _here_ , she can’t -” He took in a choked breath and drew himself up to his full height the best he could while sitting on the ground and being _fifteen_. “I ask this with the authority of a royal son of Xing. _Please_ save her.”

Dr. Knox stared down at the kid and then looked away. Despite the circumstances, she tried not to smile at seeing the cantankerous doctor clear his throat uncomfortably.

“Alright, alright, kid, I’m going,” Dr. Knox said as he stepped inside. His medical bag was clenched tightly in one aging fist. “I said I was going to do it, so I am. Don’t need to weep at my feet to get me to do my damn job.”

Before Riza could do anything, like talk to the Colonel about what was going on, Dr. Knox called out to her. “Hawkeye, come help me.”

Riza was already following, though she said, “Doctor, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be -”

“Not to help,” Dr. Knox interrupted, “Just hold my damn lamp and keep her calm.” He sent her a look, and Riza saw a kernel of kindness in those depths that wasn’t there yesterday. “I want to preserve the young lady’s modesty, if I can.”

Riza bit back a smile. “I’ll follow your lead.”

It was, in so many odd ways, like being back in Ishval. The lack of light or power or running water or anesthetic; using cheap vodka to sterilize their hands and instruments; the grim, matter-of-fact bedside manner Dr. Knox adopted even as he tried to be as gentle as he could with this living cadaver. The girl - Lan Fan, Ling had told her, lips framing the syllables like it was a prayer - was awake, and even with the sedative Dr. Knox gave her she could still feel her injuries all too well. She cried and screamed into the rag in her mouth as Dr. Knox worked, but she kept her body still with all the discipline of a lifelong martial artist.

In one hand, Riza held the oil lamp aloft and steady. Her other smoothed over Lan Fan’s sweaty forehead, holding the girl’s hand, pushing back her soaked black hair. It was thin and fine, like Roy’s.

“Shh,” Riza soothed her quietly, the way her mother had in memories three-quarters forgotten. “You’re doing great, sweet girl, almost there, you’re safe, you’re alright.”

At long last, Dr. Knox did all he could with the time, space, and materials he had. Lan Fan’s screams had faded into faint whimpers and finally she sank into black unconsciousness from exhaustion and blood loss. Riza finally set the lamp down on a side table and sat on the bed beside the girl. She pulled her blankets up to Lan Fan’s chin.

“Got a good head for medicine, Hawkeye,” Dr. Knox said abruptly. Riza looked up at him where he was using vodka to wash off his hands. Her eyes were round and wide like her namesake.

“The terror of Ishval, decent with medicine?” Riza asked. She took a cool cloth from a tray of water one of the boys had brought in, wrung it out, and gently lay it over Lan Fan’s forehead.

“Why not?” Dr. Knox asked. He took a swig from the bottle. “You kept your cool when none of the other kids did. You’re not squeamish with the blood and viscera and screaming. Got a good bedside manner, too. And you held that lamp so still I forgot it wasn’t attached to the wall.”

Riza huffed out a soft laugh through her nose. How funny to hear her thoughts from four years ago echoed back at her now. Dr. Knox scowled at her.

“Don’t think just because you killed with them, killing is all your hands are good for,” He said, making Riza’s heart freeze in her chest. He nodded down at Riza on the bed, where she was holding Lan Fan’s hand with one of hers and gently stroking her hair with the other.

He took another sip of vodka. “In any case, I’ve done all I can here. We’re going to need to move her soon. My house will be better supplied, or at least closer to supplies. I have a spare bed.”

Riza bit her lip to stop herself from smiling. “I thought you lived alone, Dr. Knox?”

Dr. Knox grunted irritably. “My couch is comfortable enough.”

This time Riza really did smile. “That’s very kind of you, Dr. Knox.”

The doctor waved off her praise with his free hand. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Dr. Knox stepped out to bring in the others as Lan Fan started to come to. The first person she asked for was her Young Lord. Biting back a smile, Riza followed the Colonel out of the room when he jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“You did well, Lieutenant,” the Colonel said to her. The hall was dark save for the faint light of the lamp shining through the doorway into Lan Fan’s room. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Riza said, because if she thought about it she was pretty sure she would fall asleep on her feet or, worse, the Colonel. She eyed him. “How are your injuries, sir?”

“No pain at all.”

“That is literally an unbelievable lie, sir.”

“Fine. They hurt like a bitch. Obviously. Does that make it better?”

“I _did_ tell you that you needed to stay in the hospital another day,” Riza reminded him.

And then Colonel Roy Mustang, decorated State Alchemist, Hero of Ishval, _stuck his tongue out at her._ Like they were children again, and he was mad she said he got a question wrong because of a technicality.

And Riza laughed, softly and just for herself and maybe for him, too. “What next, sir?”

The Colonel looked toward a closed door. Riza could faintly hear sounds on the other side of it. “We need to talk about what to do about this homunculus. Will you keep an eye on the perimeter?”

“Yes, sir,” Riza said, and she grabbed her rifle to step outside into the cool night air. She looked up at the sky, counting the stars like she counted bullets. The wind sighed a breeze through the trees, ruffling her hair. It was calm, peaceful.

_Not just a raise,_ Riza thought. _I need a vacation._

She had about two minutes of peace before the yelling inside started. Ling demanding the homunculus for his immortality quest, Ed wanting him to get his and Al’s bodies back, the Colonel reminding Ling he was here illegally anyway, Dr. Knox sighing that he was too old for this and ostensibly going to check on Lan Fan. Riza sighed, turning back towards the house to remind them to shut up because the house was supposed to be abandoned, please stop making her job harder.

And then a scream shattered the night.

_“EAT MUSTANG!”_

And half of the house was obliterated.

Riza stared into the perfect hole in the house, sheared clean away like someone had taken a carving knife to the entire thing. She curled her lip, cocking her gun.

_Screw this. I need a raise, a vacation, a promotion, and a drink._

**xvii.**

Roy groaned against the pounding in his head. The ringing in his ears and the disorientation made him, for a few nightmarish heartbeats, think he was back in the dunes of Ishval.

Distantly, over the ringing in his ears, he heard a woman’s shout. “Colonel?”

_Colonel…?_ Right. Him. He was Colonel. And the woman yelling was the Lieutenant. Hawkeye. Whose first instinct, as always, would be to move _toward_ the danger, even if she wasn’t sure what it was, even if she didn’t know if he was still alive. _Especially_ if she didn’t know if he was still alive.

The massive, gaping eye from the homunculus’s stomach suddenly flung itself to the forefront of his mind. _She didn’t know, she didn’t know what that thing was -_

“Hawkeye, _stop!”_ he shouted, loud enough for his throat to crack. The creature inhaled again, devouring more of the house. Wood shattered and dust tumbled from the aged ceilings as the roof caved in. Only Alphonse throwing his metal arms over Edward, Dr. Knox, and him saved all their lives. The little cat-panda thing Alphonse had been carrying around threw itself over Roy’s face and dug in like a frightened cat. He yanked the thing off, handing it to Alphonse, casting about for the Lieutenant even as his head swam and ears rang and side felt like it was splitting open again.

“Hawkeye, don’t provoke him!” He yelled to her. “I’m the one he wants!”

The Lieutenant shot him a look that was a combination of _fat fucking chance_ and _how did you piss him off this time_ and something else that was probably insubordinate, but then the homunculous - _Gluttony_ , Roy realized, there was a theme here, and if it rang true then this hulking mass of teeth was Gluttony.

Roy stumbled to his feet, head woozy from being thrown around and his still-healing injury. He _had_ lost a lot of blood recently, he mused as he used his teeth to tug off one of his gloves and replace them with the sparkcloth ones. He snapped his fingers, preparing to end Gluttony as easily as he had Lust, and a spout of flame erupted from his fingers. A moment later, Gluttony was engulfed in the blaze.

There was a great rush of wind that rustled Roy’s hair and coat, drawing everything in their vicinity towards Gluttony - and then the flames died as if they had never been. There was a very long, pregnant pause in the silence of the clearing.

And then Gluttony _burped._

_Huh,_ Roy thought as he stared at the undying, house-eating, dim-witted Homunculus. _That’s interesting._

And then he was _running._ Alphonse on his longer metal legs in front, Edward on his shrimpy baby legs in back, his side already aching and breath catching, they ran through the abandoned forest, splitting up to go off individually ( _so they’ll live, so they’ll be alright_ , Roy thought of the younger two, who he had never wanted to get mixed up in this mess but who of course found it anyway, the little _shits_ ).

He could hear trees crashing and tumbling mere dozens of feet away as Gluttony tore through the forest. Fortunately, it appeared that running and a massive area of effect attack was all he was capable of, so he spent much of his time stumbling about in the darkness. For a moment, he caught a horrific flash of glowing white teeth in the moonlight. His eyes made contact with the single wide eyeball that sat in Gluttony’s chest. But before he could react, a cacophony of gunshots echoed in the forest as Hawkeye, dual-wielding her pistols, fired her shots into Gluttony’s head, saving his life for the dozenth time.

Gluttony screamed, red lightning arcing through the clearing, and Roy stumbled, tripped, and rolled. His side throbbed painfully, and when he put a hand to his side, his palm came away red.

_Damn,_ he thought, _must have torn the stitches_. But he couldn’t focus on that. He had lost sight of Riza - the Lieutenant - and Gluttony, and he tried to get to his feet only to be hit by a wave of nausea.

“Colonel?”

Except there she was, again, leaning over him like a guardian angel, face white like porcelain in the moonlight.

“Lieutenant,” he breathed.

Her brow furrowed. “You’re bleeding, sir,” she told him, as if he didn’t know, and she carefully took his right arm and hefted him to his feet. He could feel every curve and line of her, every muscle in her arms and shoulders. His head lolled slightly, finding purchase in the nook between neck and shoulder. She was warm and solid and comfortable.

“Sir,” the Lieutenant said, breaking through his fugue. Her voice sounded somewhat strangled. “I am strong, but not quite strong enough to carry you back to the car.”

_That_ jolted Roy to reality. “The car?” He repeated, dumbly. Already he could see the clearing ahead, hear Dr. Knox swearing irritably and snapping at the Elrics.

“Yes,” Riza said. “You’re too injured to stay.”

“But -”

“Get in the car, invalid,” Edward Elric said over his other shoulder, pushing Roy not-so-gently into the backseat like the little ingrate he was. Roy glared at him and pretended not to notice the way Ed’s eyes were wide and shadowed.

“You expect me to run away and leave this to you, Elric?” _I never wanted this, I never wanted you mixed up in all this, I thought I would have more time to change this. I never wanted another child to fight in Amestris’s wars and I can’t keep failing you two._

“You’ve got some work to do, Colonel Idiot,” Edward reminded him. “The head of the military is a homunculus. Shouldn’t you be doing something about that?”

Roy felt and heard Riza stiffen behind him, her breath catching. “‘The head…?’ Fuhrer Bradley?”

“We can talk about it later,” Dr. Knox snapped at the children. Then there was more arguing and bickering and the children won, dammit, because Roy was useless with two holes in his stomach and Edward _did_ make a good argument about them needing to attend to the Fuhrer Bradley issue. Because they were in a war, and this was a battle, and right now to win that battle they needed to divide and conquer. Dr. Knox would take Lan Fan to his home to recuperate; Edward, Alphonse, and Ling would handle Gluttony; and Roy and the Lieutenant would go straight to Central. Riza gave the children a gun, and Roy had to look away lest he remembered the first day he pulled the trigger and shot to kill.

Roy didn’t like it. But he knew it was the best chance they had.

~

Because he was trying to prove that he was fine to the Lieutenant, Roy drove them through the Central streets. They were all but abandoned at this time of night. They gave the atmosphere in the car a quiet, peaceful air completely at odds with their current circumstances.

Or maybe that was just the power of Riza Hawkeye.

He could feel her watching him from the passenger seat. When she caught his eye, her mouth curled into a small grin.

“What’re you laughing about?”

Her smile widened. “I was thinking. If Edward heard you back there, giving Knox a piece of your mind…”

Roy felt his face heat up. “I only repeated what you’ve already said.”

She said this would happen years ago: those children were going to end up on the battlefield far before they were ready regardless of what Roy did. Roy and Riza had gone to Ishval at eighteen and nineteen; the Elrics were fourteen and fifteen (or fifteen and sixteen? Had he missed a birthday? Why was he thinking of that right now?). Ling Yao had been thrust into politics and assassinations the moment he was born. Maybe this world was simply ugly and broken, and there was nothing they could do to change that.

Or maybe Roy was driving to Central Command at two in the morning to punch the Fuhrer in the face because he was actually a Homunculus.

Riza was still laughing to herself. “So you do listen to me.”

“Of course I listen to you,” Roy said. It came out much more sincere than he intended.

Riza ducked her head and bit back a smile. Roy almost swerved the car into the opposite lane looking at her.

They pulled to a stop a few streets away from Central to change in the backseat. Roy let the Lieutenant go first, keeping his gaze focused on the outside to respect her privacy, even as it felt like his eyeballs were literally _itching_ to see what she looked like when he caught a glimpse of her black turtleneck slipping onto the floor.

_For the love of -_ Roy thought, clearing his throat and slouching in his seat . _It’s nothing you haven’t already seen._

He sighed and stared up at the looming walls of Central. A grin unfurled across his face, summoned by exhaustion and blood loss and stress and the utter ridiculity of this situation.

“What’s that look for?” the Lieutenant asked as she climbed over the middle seat to return to the passenger seat. Her hair fell across her face, close enough to brush Roy’s cheek in the confines of the car. It was another tiny thing that tugged at the thin thread Roy was hanging on.

“This,” Roy said. He pointed up at Central Command. “It’s just. Hughes was attacked, and then Ross framed, and then Havoc and you and me attacked, and now the _Elrics_ and a _Xingese prince_ are fighting our battles for us when the kid is still two years shy of touching a _razor_.” Roy’s shoulders were shaking now. “And we’re under surveillance and changing in our own car in the middle of the night. And _homunculi_ exist, and we’ve been positive that was _impossible_ until a day ago, and, and -” He had to take a breath, he was laughing so hard now. “And the Fuhrer is in on it! The Fuhrer is a homunculus!”

He was well and truly cackling now, stress finally making him crack, and then Riza started laughing, too. It was that or scream or cry, but with Riza next to him, what was odd became funny and the horrible became bearable, because the outer corners of her eyes wrinkled with her mirth and she erased years from her face when she laughed like that, full and loud and without abandon.

Riza giggled, tucking her hair up into its standard bun. She sighed, chest rising and falling, and she turned to look up at him. She was sitting much closer to him now than she had on the drive over.

“What now, sir?” she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes were huge and dark in her face.

Before he could stop himself, Roy reached up with a hand, carefully brushing her bangs back over an ear. Her hair was soft, slipping through his fingers as he pushed it out of her eyes so tenderly he ached with the motion. He could count the freckles on her nose from this angle; could close the distance between them and press his mouth to hers, fortifying himself for the battle ahead with her strength.

But that was not the agreement. He simply tucked her hair back, fingers tracing the shell of her ear, and dropped his hand back to the steering wheel.

“We keep going.” He smirked back down at her. “Still willing to follow me into hell?”

Riza rolled her eyes skyward. “I promised you I would.”

She had. Just as Roy promised her he would return to her as he walked, head high and back straight, up the Central steps into the lion’s den.

~

And the lion ate him whole.

Somehow, for all of his planning, plotting, scheming, his carefully plotted moves and his naked ambitions, it had never occurred to any of them that the entirety of senior command could know Fuhrer King Bradley was a homunculus _and not care._

It was beyond corrupt. Beyond vile. It was...it was _deranged_ , the power-hungry thirst for war and power that filled the hearts and minds and air of that conference room.

_This,_ Roy realized suddenly, the bottom of his stomach dropping out. _This is what you saw, Hughes, this is what you learned - the danger, it wasn’t close, it wasn’t a threat_ to _the military, it_ was _the military…_

This changed _everything_. The ongoing wars in the west and south. The extermination of Ishval. With a sick, sharp twist in his stomach, Roy thought of Edward and Alphonse, fighting for their lives out in the night, now at the beck and call and subject to the whims of a military that wanted nothing more than to use them for power and gain. And the homunculi...they wanted to sacrifice the Elrics for their own twisted ends, and Roy had delivered them on a silver platter.

Roy sat and listened to the Fuhrer, watched as a man he had not respected but liked well enough became a stranger to him. He was cruel, dark, cold, ruthlessly pragmatic and... _oh,_ Roy realized as he stared at the Fuhrer's back. _This is Wrath._

There was only one bright spot from this conversation: the Fuhrer did not know that Hughes had survived his attack. That was perhaps the only win that came from this conversation.

But the _losses._

“I know who exactly to use as your weak point,” the Fuhrer promised, and he delivered. Fuery to the south; Breda to the west; Fulman to the north. He ripped apart Roy’s family with four signatures.

And the Lieutenant, Riza, _Riza,_ would be the personal assistant to the Fuhrer. Under his thumb and his constant watch. The physical embodiment of wrath would have access to her all day, every day.

It was the _perfect_ move, admirable for its simplicity and brilliance, cutting off his supports in one fell swoop. In chess it would be the Fool’s Mate of the century, the Fuhrer checkmating his opponent in a single move, clearing the board by hopping over all of them like a game of children’s checkers. Roy felt like he had been gutted, like the Fuhrer had run him through with his swords in the middle of the office.

Careful - they had been _so careful_. He had kept the others out of his nonsense the best he could. He held the Lieutenant at arm’s length to keep her safe (except for one stolen kiss on a stolen night), to keep her from being swept up in this nonsense. Part of Roy hated the Fuhrer for treating Riza Hawkeye like a mere pawn, when really she was the strongest player on the board. Able to go anywhere, do anything, unstoppable and indomitable.

But maybe the Fuhrer knew that. Everyone knew, had joked for years, about who was really in charge of Roy’s team.

Roy stood alone in his empty office later that day, watching as Lieutenant Hawkeye cleaned out her desk to leave. She was due to report to the Fuhrer immediately to begin her duties. They barely even had time to breathe or grieve or get a cup of coffee before she was supposed to walk, coolly and calmly, into a den of snakes.

What power she had. He was utterly lost without her, and utterly powerless to do anything to protect her as he watched the door swing shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter i have ever written....please review.....thank you.....  
> thank you for reading! please hmu on tumblr @notantherwritingblog!


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from wrath to greed to the promised day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY ROYAI WEEK 2020!

****

xviii.

****

Working for the Homunculus-Fuhrer King Bradley was not at all like Riza expected.

She was not sure _what_ she expected. It would be suspicious and cartoonishly evil if Riza were somehow physically or visually held hostage. Bradley was too careful to make such an obvious mistake now. He had separated their team and effectively had Riza under his complete control; there was no need to rub salt into the wounds.

But working for him was shockingly _easy._ Fuhrer Bradley never missed a deadline, never forgot or ran late to his meetings, never made a mistake on a single form. He went into work early and stayed late, but he did not expect or demand Riza to do the same (when she did anyway, used to this workaholism from her years with the Colonel, he seemed _appreciative_ ). He was polite and charismatic with everyone he met - his generals and insubordinates, the press during his conferences and interviews and statements, the cafeteria staff and sanitation workers. He never raised his voice, and he spoke of his wife and son with genuine pride and affection.

It was difficult to reconcile this man with the physical embodiment of Wrath that she knew he was. Then she remembered Lan Fan’s shaking hand in hers, Roy laying in a pool of blood, Havoc and Hughes in their hospital beds, the blowing sands of Ishval.

Riza wasn’t expected to stay late at work, but she did. She wanted to keep an eye on the Fuhrer, refusing to let him win and think he had her cowed. But she also found herself feeling adrift without her team. Her days had never felt so long and monotonous. And _quiet._ There was no Havoc to whine about his endless single status or brag about dates; no Fulman to share interesting anecdotes from his endless reading, or tell them what he had seen at the museum or opera or play that weekend; no Fuery to poke and prod at technology until it poked back, leaving his messy hair standing on end for the rest of the day; no Breda to fill in all of their gaps like mortar between bricks.

There was no Colonel to tread in late, to irritate and cajole into doing his job and filling out his paperwork, to share an afternoon coffee break with, to exchange inconspicuous looks with in meetings, laughing uproariously with the flick of an eyebrow. He wasn’t there to gently tease her out of her thoughts, to make bets with the others about ridiculous shots she couldn’t make (he never bet against her), to brush his shoulder against hers when they were leaning over his desk to review the latest mission plans. No more secret codes or sidelong glances. No more Colonel to distract her from her work with how the sun shone on his hair or his smile lit up his entire face.

She just wanted this to be over, Riza mused under the shower spray one night. The water pressure was mediocre, but the hot jet of water was soothing over the tense, aching muscles in her back and neck. She lay her head against the cool tile of the shower, letting the spray run in rivulets over her skin. The sensation was dulled over the layers of scar tissue.

Hayate’s barking brought her back to the real world. Frowning, Riza quickly stepped out of the shower, drying off enough to put on a pair of pajamas, swinging a soft sweater over her shoulders to keep warm and covered because she was home and _refused_ to put on a bra if you held a gun to her head.

Hayate was still barking when she opened the front door, and he launched himself like he was an attack dog instead of a twenty-pound Shiba. Not expecting the sudden attack, Edward Elric failed to protect himself in time and was felled by the vicious little ball of fur, who immediately sat on his chest and started energetically licking his face.

It was cute, endearing, watching Edward Elric for a moment look like the child he was. She couldn’t quite bite back her smile when she said, “No, Hayate. Bad dog.”

Edward had come by to drop off the gun she lent him from the fight with Gluttony. The entire thing, she noticed, was covered in blood, dried and sticking and congealing on all the catches. She looked from the barrel to the boy with bandages on his face and shadows under his eyes.

He was still seated on the floor when he met her gaze. There is a new expression there, she noticed: something older, harder. A sign of maturity she hadn’t seen the last time they met. He greeted her by saying, “I hear you’re working for the Fuhrer.”

Riza felt herself smile. She wondered where he had learned that - the rumors about Mustang’s team being split up, and why, were running rampant. She heard the unspoken _I’m sorry_ and _are you alright_ that he didn’t know how to express. “Do you want to come inside, Edward?"

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. He allowed Riza to gently tug him to his feet and lead him in. Her apartment was still more packed than unpacked from the move to Central months ago, but she had two chairs and a teakettle to put on. Edward sat quietly for a few minutes at her kitchen table, stroking Black Hayate’s lolling head. From the distant, vacant expression in his eyes, he was miles away.

Riza set two steaming cups of tea on the table and procured her gun cleaning materials. If it were anyone else returning one of her guns in this sorry state, she would have wrung their neck or shot them with one of her spares. As it was, Riza didn’t have the heart to even gently scold the kid. As she started to loosen the handle’s bolts, she asked, “What happened after we left the forest, Edward?”

And Edward told her. Gluttony swallowing him, Ling, and Envy, escaping only through impossible alchemy to tear themselves back out. Ling accepting the homunculus Greed and allowing himself to be used as his vessel. Father blocking their alchemy. His and Alphonse’s meeting with the Fuhrer. His threats against Winry, holding her over their heads just as the Fuhrer held Riza over the Colonel.

(And that - _that_ made her angry. Riza could take care of herself. She could shoot and fight and hold her own with these alchemists and supernatural beings any hour of the day. She had chosen this path the day the Colonel asked her to join him. She was a _threat._

Winry Rockbell was a sixteen-year-old automail mechanic who knew nothing of any of this.)

It sounded like a nightmare. Like hell, again. Riza remembered Roy’s confession to her in his mother’s tavern, whispering the words like he was in a confessional. _I never wanted to hurt them._ Riza wondered if he knew that he said it with the same regret and heartbreak as when he spoke of Ishval. She smiled at the memory. The Colonel would never admit to it, and Edward would reject the sentiment if he heard it, but she knew both would secretly appreciate the other’s concern.

Edward never had an elder brother, and Roy never had any brothers at all.

Colonel. Dammit. Whatever.

Edward spoke again, tired and ashamed, all of his anger turned inward. He confessed, bitter and embarrassed, “I didn’t use the gun. I didn’t have to. Or, I...I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

That made Riza pause in her careful ministrations. She studied Edward across the table. He thought he was weak and pathetic for not shooting a deadly weapon, but all Riza felt was proud. Proud that he had seen the face of evil in this country and stood by his morals anyway. Proud that he had swallowed his anger and rage to protect the girl he loved. Proud that he had the words to support her when she needed it most.

“You’re dwelling on this because you made it back alive,” Riza explained to him gently. She kept her gaze on her gun as she spoke from experience. “You need to stay focused on living. That’s how you’ll help Winry.” _That’s how Roy helped me, and I him._ “How else can you protect her? You love her, don’t you?”

And then she was reminded that Edward was still very much a child, because he spat up an entire mouthful of tea onto her dog.

Riza smiled to herself, the closest to laughing she had been in weeks.

“Does it ever feel like a burden to you?” Edward asked her. Riza realized that while his face was older, his eyes wiser, there was still that kernel of fire she and the Colonel had seen when they first met him five years ago.

“I’ve lost the right to look at it that way.” Riza let out a soft sigh. “Let me tell you a story, Edward.”

And she told him of Ishval. Of its entirely preventable start, its inevitable escalation, its apocalyptic demise. Of her role in it, as a sniper, and the Colonel’s as an alchemist. How she and the Colonel banded together to shape something better out of Amestris’s clay with their bare hands regardless of the consequences.

“But that’s -” Edward sputtered, bemused and horrified, “-That’s suicide! What’s the point of changing the entire country if you're still going to execute yourselves at the end of it? What, Colonel Dumbshit’s first order as Fuhrer is gonna be to set a date with the firing squad?”

“It’s about accountability, Edward,” Riza explained gently. “You don’t need to worry about it. You have enough on your plate.”

“Don’t need to _worry_ -” Edward spluttered. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since the Colonel and I got back from Ishval,” Riza confessed.

Edward frowned at that, tilting his head in confusion. “How long have you known each other, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve known him longer than I haven’t,” she answered. There was a wistful note to her voice that she hadn’t quite caught before the words slipped out.

Edward had always been more perceptive than his short temper and recklessness would lead one to expect. He was also kinder than he gave himself credit for. Quietly, he said, “You miss him, huh, Lieutenant?”

Riza’s hands wanted to flex around the reassembled gun in her hands. It was a reflex borne of years in the war, the field, on missions with her crew. But she was also a professional, and she would have been poor at undercover work if she reacted every time someone said something unexpected, or a shade too honest, or struck just a bit too close to the truth.

But there was no point lying to him.

“I do,” Riza said softly.

Edward opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it as he snapped it shut again. Riza looked up from her gun, smiling gently at him from across the table.

_This boy’s heart is too big for his chest,_ she finally recognized. _No wonder it weighs him down._ No wonder he was loved everywhere he went.

“Thank you for the tea,” Edward said. He swallowed uncomfortably. “Sorry for spitting it on your dog.”

“Apologize to Hayate, not to me,” Riza said, barely keeping the laugh out of her voice. Edward was already flushing pink again at the memory of her words.

Obediently, Edward leaned down, rubbing his flesh hand over the top of Hayate’s head and covering his glove in black fur. “Sorry, buddy.” He sat up straight again. To Riza, he said, “Thank you for listening, Lieutenant.”

“Anytime, Edward.”

And she really meant it.

~

Riza stood in front of the plain brown door and stared at the handle.

Thank _goodness_ it was the early evening and no one was in the hallway to watch Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye make a fool out of herself. There was no reason to stare at this door as if she had no idea how it worked. She was acting like she had never seen it before. In reality, she had spent more of her life on the other side of it than in her own home until a month ago.

But her heart was pounding in her throat, her palms going sweaty. She wiped them on her pant legs.

_Fucking_ ridiculous. She was twenty-seven, not fourteen. Yet the butterflies ricocheting in her stomach remained the same.

_You went to war,_ Riza told herself sternly. _You can knock on a door._

And she rapped on the hardwood and opened it anyway before her nerve could fail her.

“Sorry for the interruption,” she blurted out. Her body felt too stiff, her words too formal. 

The Colonel stared at her, blinking. “Uh,” he said eloquently, unsure who this robot was and wondering what she had done with Riza Hawkeye. He needed a haircut, she noticed. His bangs were overlong and flopping into his eyes. “Sure.”

She needed to move. “I just came to get some things I forgot.”

“Ah,” the Colonel said. Riza felt even more uncomfortable. She wondered if this entire thing had been a mistake.

Riza opened the shelves and started taking books out, stacking them in her arms. The Colonel would hardly know what these were, considering he never did any of the organizing, and nothing this far back was useful to them, anyway. These drawers had once been full of Fuery’s radio equipment and Fulman’s books and Breda and Havoc’s guns and extra supplies and snacks, and now they were cold and empty. The entire room echoed with her footsteps, the rustle of her clothes, the scratch of the Colonel’s pen against paper. 

It was lonely. She could not imagine working in it, all day, every day, staring ahead at a sea of empty desks.

But she had come here with a mission, and she couldn’t afford to get sentimental now.

“I’ve heard intel that Scar is back on the prowl,” Riza said. She eyed a book about policy and nabbed that, too. She was the Fuhrer’s new personal assistant; she should be familiar with it.

“I guess I’ll watch out for him, then,” the Colonel said. A pause, like he was debating whether to add any more, and then he spoke anyway because he was Roy fucking Mustang. “Things are going to be tough without my bodyguard.”

The words cut deep. It was not a wound of the Colonel’s making, but to be reminded of it felt like a knife being twisted in her stomach. She wanted to ask, did he not think she knew that? Did he think it was possible for her to protect him day in, day out for eight years and then suddenly forget? She closed the shelves harder than she meant to, her back straight and the leather-bound books cracking as she clenched her arms at her sides. Her knuckles were white on the knobs.

“Just don’t get killed, sir.”

The pen stopped. There was a long pause.

“Sure.” He said it as an exhale. Another pause. They had never hesitated to speak like this before. It was awkward. They had never been _awkward_ before. “You must be anxious, huh?”

Maybe this was a mistake. Actually, it was _definitely_ a mistake. The fact that she was working for the Fuhrer now and their friends were scattered all over the country was proof enough of that. They had been sloppy, and careless, and this was the cost. And now she barged into his office to, what, warn him about Scar? Like he wasn’t going to find out? Ask him not to get killed, like he wasn’t a _war hero_ who used the most powerful alchemy _invented?_ Like he was going to die the second she wasn’t working with him anymore?

They were close, orbiting one another like sister stars, but they weren’t _that_ codependent.

She needed to leave this room. She needed to break this tension. She put a smile on her face, made her tone dry and teasing like she could force things back to normal through force of will.

“Maybe I picked the wrong person to side with, after all.”

The Colonel rested his chin on his hands. His hand was healed now, though the scars from the transmutation circle would remain. He looked exhausted sitting there, shoulders curled, surrounded by stacks and stacks of papers. “Then go ahead and shoot me, if that’s what you think. You promised me that you would.”

“You haven’t gotten _quite_ that bad,” Riza said. She clung to the words like a lifeline. This was fine. This was normal.

He laughed. A dry, tired, wheezy sort of sound, like he had fallen out of the habit. It was cracked around the edges from disuse. She had missed it _so much._ She wanted to wear it like a scarf.

He stood to see her off. “You’re too kind, Lieutenant.”

Riza stood in front of the door, her arms full of books she didn’t need, staring at a man who had spent his entire professional career crafting an impenetrable poker face. Until now, she could always see through it. Now she felt like she was talking to a mannequin.

“Well, Colonel,” she said, raising her hand to her temple. “See you later.”

He nodded once. “Until then.”

Riza nodded, opening the door. She took a step through, hating how off-kilter she felt. This was supposed to make things feel _better_ , less out of control, not worse. She felt uneven and unbalanced, like she had put her shoes on the wrong feet. Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned back around. “One other thing: try not to slack off too much.”

The Colonel smiled at that, surprised and charming and all he said was, “Right.”

Riza made it about a dozen steps down the hallway before she peeled off for the nearest ladies’ room. She set down the books on the counter they installed for the womenfolk to put on their makeup and then she pressed her back to the door, so no one could come in, and then she let herself slide down, down, down to sit on the bathroom floor.

It was embarrassing, really. She was better and stronger than this. She was currently being held hostage by the Fuhrer, who happened to be a human-turned homunculus powered by a philosopher’s stone, two things they had all been _positive_ did not exist this time a year ago. That same Fuhrer also had other allies with impossible powers and evil plans for this entire country, because they were power-hungry and genocidal. And the forces amassing to fight them consisted of two teenage boys, two war criminals, the possessed Prince of Xing, and an asshole doctor.

And Riza was upset about a _boy._

To be fair, she could actually work around and/or shoot pretty much all of those issues and obstacles relating to the genocidal Fuhrer homunculus, and she couldn’t exactly shoot the Colonel.

Well. She _could._ He had in fact just reminded her that she was welcomed and obligated to do just that, should the need ever arise. But she didn’t _want_ to shoot him. She wanted to dress him up like he had on that mission at Sway and dance the night away, drinking and laughing with his voice in her ear and hands all over her, and then she wanted to take him back to her apartment and peel him out of his clothes until he was as _utterly wrecked_ as he was leaving her. And she wanted to do it again and again until he was _demolished._

_That_ was the problem.

And so the fuck what? Just because they had kissed (and _what_ a kiss it was - she still remembered the way the world stopped turning when he kissed her, and she was positive she had fallen asleep in the shooting gallery and was having an extremely vivid dream until he bit her lip, tugged at her hair, ran his tongue against the line of her throat). They were blowing off steam because they were two attractive single adults who saw each other every day and worked too damn much.

That was the agreement. One kiss each, break the tension, get it out of their system, and get back to work. It wasn’t supposed to open this...this _floodgate._

Riza inhaled a deep breath. On her exhale she breathed out all of her self-loathing and disappointment and frustration. She was a professional, and she had a job to do. She stood up, dusting her hands off on her knees, and went to retrieve her books. The military policy book was on top. On a whim, she flipped it open to a random page.

The section that came up was _Anti-Fraternization Policy._

Riza stared at it for a long moment. She threw her head back laughing. It echoed in the empty bathroom.

Then she stalked out of the bathroom and directed her steps to the shooting gallery. She needed to feel a gun in her hands.

~

Riza’s eyes were aching with tiredness as she strolled up the walkway to the Fuhrer’s estate. It was only ten o’clock, but sleep had been evading her lately in ways it hadn’t since Ishval. Not quite so severe, but at least as persistent.

The butler that let her in wasn’t a surprise, but the woman who greeted her in the entryway was. Since starting her position, Riza had only run into Madame Fuhrer Bradley a handful of times. None of them were long enough to strike up more than passing pleasantries, but she always left Riza with the impression of a kind, matronly woman. Riza had that sense again when the Madame Fuhrer walked towards her, smiling despite the late hour.

“Well, aren’t you working late, my dear?” the Madame Fuhrer asked. “I’m so sorry, my husband isn’t home right now. But if you don’t mind leaving those forms I can make sure that he gets them.”

Riza smiled gratefully. Front or not, the Madame Fuhrer was the warmest face she had seen in what felt like months. “That would be great. It’s nothing he needs to sign, but these are important documents for a meeting with the Drachman Ambassador tomorrow morning. These came in this afternoon after he stepped out, otherwise I wouldn’t have intruded.”

“No intrusion at all!” Madame Fuhrer said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?”

_If your husband would call off the nationwide transmutation circle, that would be much appreciated,_ Riza thought. _And a promotion, and a raise, and about two months off of work. And a case of wine._

“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” Riza said. “But thank you so much for your time. Have a wonderful eve-”

The hairs stood up along the back of her neck. Riza’s blood froze in her veins and then started up again in triple time, pounding out _danger, danger, danger_ in a manner that had never let her down. This feeling had saved her life in Ishval, handled her father’s most mercurial moods, stopped missions from going south and Gluttony from swallowing her whole. Riza knew that whatever was behind her, right now, was just as dangerous as any threat she had yet faced. She spun, coming face to face with -

Nothing.

She looked down and found herself peering into the wide, round eyes of Selim Bradley.

Riza fought to get her breathing under control as the Madame Fuhrer gently admonished her son for being up so late. She managed a shaky but natural-enough looking smile as she peered down at the boy. His bright round face showed he was well-cared for, his clothes clean and comfortable. He was polite and curious and every muscle in Riza’s body was locked because something was wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ and the fact that she couldn’t identify it only made it worse. She wished the young, precocious boy goodnight and watched as he was led away by the family butler.

“He seems like a sweet boy,” Riza said. The Madame Fuhrer beamed, pressing a hand to her cheek like she was trying to keep her smile from stretching beyond the boundaries of her face.

And then she dropped the bomb on Riza.

Selim Bradley wasn’t her son. That wasn’t much of a surprise to Riza - the Madame Fuhrer was well into her fifties, meaning she would have been in her late forties or early fifties when Selim was born. She had assumed the child was adopted or a relative of the Madame’s. But the Madame Fuhrer said Selim was related to Bradley, which was impossible, so…

_So…_

_Who is he?_ Riza wondered as she walked down the driveway back to her car. Her mind spun, trying to sort things into some kind of sense. King Bradley had no family or history of his own; everything about him was a fabrication by the homunculi. He did not know his own parents’ names, let alone his extended family.

That left one explanation.

The homunculi had a theme. King Bradley was Wrath. Lust was dead. Gluttony was the fat one who wanted to kill Mustang and ate Edward. Greed was Ling now, and off doing his own thing. Envy was an annoying shapeshifter, according to the Elrics. That left Sloth and…

An oddly high, echoing voice echoed in the abandoned sidewalk.

_“So...you’ve put it all together.”_

Shadows moved sinuously along the ground, curling around her ankles, her wrists, scratching her cheek. Holding her fast and not releasing her from this nightmare.

****

xix.

****

Roy _already_ had a tension headache, and that was _before_ he picked up Fullmetal and Alphonse for a ride like the world’s most exhausted cabbie. _Before_ Edward and Alphonse told him about their search for the Xingese girl and her weird cat, and _before_ the little shit tried to pull one over on him by skimping out on twenty cenz. His yelling grated on Roy’s ears, making the pounding in his temples increase sharply.

Grumbling about Roy being a penny-pincher and a miser, Edward dug around in his pockets for the change while Roy drove with one hand, his other palm out and open expectantly. Edward eyed the change in his hand for a long moment, mulling over something before he said it.

“You know,” Edward said, his voice too casual, “I’m gonna hold onto this for now. I’ll pay you back once you become Fuhrer.”

_That_ gave Roy pause. He narrowed his eyes to glare at the little shit. “Who told you?”

Edward stared straight ahead. His eyes and hair caught the light of the sunset. Roy realized the kid was growing, his features becoming bolder and more angular. He might need to learn to shave in _one_ year rather than _two._ Finally, he said, “Lieutenant Hawkeye told me. And she told me about Ishval.”

Roy did not speak for a few long minutes. He had known Edward - and Alphonse by extension - had to know at least some about Roy’s involvement in the Extermination Campaign. And he also knew that eventually, the kids would find out everything, either by researching it for themselves or by outright asking. In some ways he was glad Edward had heard it from the Lieutenant. She would have explained it all better than Roy, been clear and concise and answered all of his questions. Roy would have, too. He still would, in fact.

He glanced at Edward sidelong, met Alphonse’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “And what did you think?”

Maybe this was why he hadn’t brought it up before. Not simply because they were two traumatized children with their own stuff going on and Roy was 1) their superior officer, and 2) the adult in this situation. But maybe Roy was also a bit afraid of what these kids would think of him once they learned who and what he really was.

Edward thought about his answer for a minute or so. Roy braced himself for impact, because Edward choosing his words carefully either meant he was thinking about which swear words he wanted to use to perfectly encapsulate his feelings, or his answer was going to be unexpectedly poignant.

“I think you did a lot of really horrible shit,” Edward said finally. “And I don’t think most of it can be forgiven.”

Roy nodded. “That’s fair.”

_“But,”_ Edward added, raising his voice a bit and plowing on like if he didn’t say this now he never would, “I think you spending your whole career trying to make up for it and fix things… is one way to make amends.”

Edward slouched down in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. His face had flushed the dull red it always did when he sunk so low as to express genuine emotion. “It’s stupid and suicidal, but no one else is going to do it. So it might as well be you.”

Roy looked back ahead at the road. His smile was genuine, if a bit shaky at the corners. His eyes stung with tears from the setting sun shining right into his eyes, nothing more.

“Thanks, Fullmetal.”

“I think you’re a much better man than you give yourself credit for, Colonel,” Alphonse piped up from the backseat.

Roy ducked his head and almost blew through an intersection. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Me, neither,” Edward grumbled, much more irritated now that he’d had to yell “LIGHT!” at the top of his lungs.

They were quiet until Roy pulled up outside of the boys’ hotel. It took more willpower than Roy was proud to admit to stop from asking Edward any more - what had happened after he left them and Ling, how they planned to learn more about alkahestry, if the Lieutenant was doing alright, if she was safe.

(Missing her was like worrying a hangnail or a splinter - a constant, nagging sensation at the edge of his consciousness, something that never truly abated.)

Edward hopped out of the car, whirling around to tell him something. “I’ll give you your money back when this country is a democracy, Colonel. But then I’ll just keep taking more.”

“Little shit,” Roy mumbled under his breath. Louder, he added, “I won’t be off the hook for a while, will I?”

“Nope,” Edward said. He hesitated for another moment, considering his words, and then he looked up and met Roy’s gaze. His gold eyes were full of fire and brimstone and derision and just a hint of humor at his expense. “Take care, Colonel. And you better not worry the Lieutenant, either.”

He slammed the door in Roy’s face. Taken aback by the abrupt non sequitur and the force, Roy jumped. He felt the full three seconds that his carefully constructed mask of casual indolence dropped. Smirking, Edward waved. “Thanks for the ride, Colonel.”

Roy watched him go inside the hotel, mostly restraining himself from lighting the kid’s braid on fire but also making sure he made it inside safely. With a long sigh, he hit the gas to drive to Aunt Chris’s. He needed her help if he was going to get this information network going. He also needed to set a “date” with one of the girls - really, it was just an information exchange with Caroline, who would spend the entire time gushing about her “kitten” (her daughter and Roy’s niece, Sophia). Then he had more work to do, and a sneak meeting with Grumman tomorrow, and he ought to check on Havoc because it had been a while, and he had about eight meetings coming up, perhaps two of which he was prepared for, and…

Roy parked his car on a corner four blocks away from Aunt Chris’s tavern. He lay his head back against the headrest. His eyes stung with tiredness when he closed them, and moving his head only made the pounding in his temples worse.

It wasn’t as if his workload had suddenly increased exponentially. It took longer to do now that he didn’t have his team, but it wasn’t substantially _more work._ He was just...listless, floating through his days in a constant daze of exhaustion and depression because he was lonely and he missed his family and he missed Riza so much it hurt. And trying to keep the maelstrom of emotions at bay all the time was using up most of his mental and emotional energy.

Five seconds. He would allow himself five seconds to feel everything that he was repressing, and then he was going to get back to work. He breathed in, held it, released.

_One._

First was the anger. At the Fuhrer, at himself, at the world. For the millions lost and dead and maimed, at his own hand and at the hands of his country. He had been so naive and trusting and he’d never grown out of it. Now they were all paying the price for his hopeless dreaming.

_Two._

Then was the fear and the guilt. He pictured Fuery, still burning through his baby fat, running for his life through the trenches to the south. Breda, subtle and brilliant, forced to push papers in the endless bureaucratic shuffle in the west. Fulman, stagnating in the frigid, austere confines of Briggs, where minimalism was the rule. Havoc, no longer able to support his weight or his country, going stir-crazy and irritable in his hospital bed. Hughes, laying comatose in Dr. Knox’s basement. Gracia, lying to her daughter and grieving her husband and supporting their cause and the Elrics and Winry the best she could. Edward, caught between a rock and a hard place and his thick skull and his big heart, trying to save everyone he could and never including himself. Alphonse, frozen in time in a vintage suit of armor, unable to eat, sleep, cry, feel the snow or rain or sun on his skin. And the Lieutenant…

_Three._

The Lieutenant, the _Lieutenant._ He _ached_ from missing her. Her calming presence, her wry humor, the way her eyes expressed every emotion she couldn’t show on her face or wouldn't articulate if you knew how to look. The way her hair caught in the sunlight and the way her laugh echoed and the way she touched him like he was some precious thing. The way she smelled like gunpowder and metal and smoke and sometimes flowers.

_Four._

The way it felt to hold her and kiss her and lay his head on her shoulder, knowing she would never let him fall. The way he woke up every day and kept going because he was going to get her out of the mess he put her in if it was the last thing he did. The way she kept him good and strong and sane and he hadn’t realized it until she was gone and now he was lost in a storm with no lifejacket and a leaking canoe.

_Five._

Roy opened his eyes. There was dampness in his eyes, but he could not blame the sun for that in the shadows of his car. He dabbed them away with the sleeves of his shirt and stepped into his mother’s bar.

~

Roy’s head was spinning.

Immortal soldiers, the truth behind Grumman’s transfer, Liore. Grumman was Riza’s _grandfather._ The Elric hellions were up in Briggs, as were General Raven and Kimblee, who had somehow wormed his way out of prison. Fort Briggs was attacked by a giant creature that refused to die, even when shot with a tank, so that’s six of the seven homunculi accounted for. Kimblee had also apparently been near-mortally injured, but went from bedridden to flouncing around Briggs in the course of an afternoon, so there was _probably_ a philosopher’s stone floating around in the North, as well.

And to cap it all off, he was out 35,000 cenz and had a trunkful of flowers. The heady scents of roses, tulips, gardenias, hyacinths, lilies, magnolias, freesias, jasmine, and peonies only added to the migraine he’d had for the past two days. Black exhaustion was tugging at the corners of his consciousness. He would have napped in his car if he wasn’t sure to wake up with his neck and back turned to wood.

He slumped over the steering wheel. He wished his mind would stop racing. What he wouldn’t give to just sleep for a week. Or have a stiff drink. Or see any of his old team. Or just speak to the Lieutenant.

He perked up as an idea struck him. In his rearview mirror, he saw a bouquet of daisies.

Grinning, he reached back to grab the bouquet and bounded out of the car. He grinned as he walked too-quickly to a nice, out of the way phone booth, dropped in the cenz, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

The dial tone rang in his ear, every ring only amplifying his excitement to just hear her voice again.

_“Hello?”_

The smile that unfurled over Roy’s face was so wide it made his cheeks ache. “Hello, madam!” he said cheerfully. “This is your neighborhood florist!”

He had hoped for a laugh, a fond sigh of exasperation, a dry witticism in response. Instead she snapped, _“What are you talking about, Colonel?”_

Roy blinked, taken aback. She sounded annoyed, almost angry at him for calling her. He glanced at his watch. _22:34pm._ Not the latest he had ever called her, and certainly not the latest they had been together or spoken, but something that had been a great idea and a sneaky way to try and check on her thirty seconds ago now felt annoying and pathetic and clingy.

Well. How to salvage this. “Heh, sorry,” he said. “I, uh, got drunk and bought a car-full of flowers.” He tried to infuse the best of his flirty tone into his voice. His free hand clenched tightly around the daisy stems. “You wanna do me a favor and take some off my hands?”

There was no answer. For a moment, Roy wondered if the call had dropped. Then, on the other end, came the softest exhale, shuddering slightly on the end.

Roy’s mind snapped to attention. He had never heard the Lieutenant make that sound. “What’s wrong?”

A second, tiny gasp, like she hadn’t meant to make that first sound. More silence.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

She did not respond immediately. He could hear her breathing into the receiver - quiet, but if he could hear her through the phone, then she was breathing louder than usual. (Was it weird he could tell when the Lieutenant was breathing loudly versus when she was breathing normally? Maybe. But he _knew_ her. And he _knew_ something was wrong).

“No, sir,” she said quietly. “It’s nothing.”

Her voice once again carried that oddly over-professional, distant cadence, the same one she used when she surprised him in his office weeks ago.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “And sorry to let you down, but I don’t even own a flower vase. Thanks for thinking of me, though. Have a good night.”

She sounded like a phone salesman reading off a script. She sounded like she wished he had never called at all.

“Hawkeye, are -?”

“Okay, bye.”

And she hung up on him.

She _hung up on him._

Roy was too surprised to do more than stare at the phone. She sounded like she was unpleasantly surprised to hear from him. Had he interrupted her? It was late at night, and the Lieutenant was a beautiful woman - had he interrupted a date? But if she were on a date, would she have even answered the phone? And she certainly would not have sounded like that - hesitant, overwhelmed, irritated...scared.

She was _scared._ Roy had to stop himself from taking his daisies and sprinting to her apartment, as if she were actively being held hostage (wasn’t she? Wasn’t that kind of the whole issue here?) and he was some big hero coming to save the day. Like she couldn’t save herself much better and more efficiently than he could.

But he was jumping to conclusions. He could find her at work, take a few spare minutes to say hello to his former adjutant. If they did it in some crowded, public place, passing like ships in the night, they could probably get away with casual chitchat. Making a plan to find her at lunch, he hung up the phone in its receiver.

Instead of giving the daisies to his favorite Lieutenant, he threw them in the park trash.

~

He finally got his chance to speak to the Lieutenant four days later.

“Is this spot taken?”

He swore he saw the Lieutenant _flinch_ in surprise. She slowly looked up at him, her face carefully neutral as she stared at him like she hadn’t seen him before. After a long few heartbeats she looked down into her plate again.

“...No.”

She didn’t say _go ahead,_ but Roy sat anyway. He set down his paperwork beside his tray, a sandwich in one hand and pen in the other.

“How’s work been treating you?” the Lieutenant asked. It was painful, this small-talk, the heavy awkwardness that had settled over them. It was like talking to a stranger.

“See for yourself,” Roy said, trying to inject some levity into the conversation. “I have to work through every meal or I can’t keep up.” He signed this supplies report, flipped to the next one. “How about you?”

“I’ve been staying busy, too.” The Lieutenant wasn’t even _looking_ at him when she spoke. “Especially with everything I’ve had to learn. Fuhrer Bradley works very efficiently, though, which helps. He isn’t a slacker, that’s for sure.”

That one even stung. Roy frowned, grumbling, “Sounds like this is going to be a dull conversation.”

The Lieutenant’s head ducked even further, like she was trying to hide her chin in her collar. Roy immediately felt guilty. He pushed his food around on his plate without actually picking anything up. All of his hunger and exhaustion had vanished in the wake of the nervous, uncomfortable flips in his stomach. His mind raced, echoing with the question, _did I misread everything?_

They had other things to worry about. But Roy would argue he was doing very well worrying himself into an early grave or at least an ulcer, so he might as well add this when he was on a roll. He flicked his gaze up through his lashes, trying not to stare while staring at the Lieutenant.

She looked pale, her skin papery and nearly translucent under the mess hall’s fluorescent lights. The bags under her eyes were darker and heavier than he had seen them in years. There was a fresh scratch along her cheekbone, a garish line of red against her skin. She had not looked him in the eye this entire meal.

Something was bothering her, eating her from inside out. Roy’s stomach churned again, but this time it was with guilt. He had dragged her into this mess with him, practically ordering her to risk life and limb and career for his ambitions. (For a dream, a dream they shared, and he wouldn’t cheapen her ideals of a democratic Amestris with his own selfish self-flagellation).

It was a silence as rife with tension and meaningless as their small-talk. It was jokes that didn’t land and jabs that hit too hard. It felt like he was sixteen again, tripping over his own feet trying to ingratiate himself with his master’s quiet, withdrawn daughter.

Did he misread _everything?_ The banter, the witty flirtations, the lingering glances? Had he made her uncomfortable with his attentions? Was his late-night “drunk” phone call the straw that broke her back, so to speak? Maybe the kiss was just getting a curiosity out of her system, scratching an itch, and now that she was no longer stuck with him every day, whatever she felt for him was burning off like morning mist. If he was going to be an arrogant ass about it and assume she ever felt something for him in the first place.

But if she had never cared, he reasoned, half-hopeful and grasping at straws, then things wouldn’t feel as awful as they did.

“Well, apparently…”

Two taps.

Two taps pulled him from his cyclical thoughts of misery and missing her when she was a foot away. He looked up at her and met her gaze for the first time since she left. Her amber eyes bore into him, grim and determined and just a little wary, like he could forget their code.

They were in the middle of the loud, crowded mess hall, and she still needed to speak in codes. Something dangerous enough she was willing to do this here and now. “Scar is up in the north. The Elrics are up there as well.”

He studied her. “I see.”

He tapped his pen twice, spinning it casually in his hands in a neat finger trick he had learned by himself in the office because he was so lonely he was ready to climb the walls.

The tiniest smile flickered over her face.

Their conversation was still a shade awkward, but that was the side effect of this code. Spelling things out with names led to a code rife with tangents and idle small talk. And it was a _long_ message - Roy wrote name after name and letter after letter and it kept going. Finally, she used her fingernails to rap twice on the table. She glanced up at the clock.

“I should be getting back to work.”

Roy swallowed. He tapped his pen twice. “Of course.”

Getting back to work with the Fuhrer. Without him. He looked up at her and found that she was at least finally meeting his eyes. She looked relieved, some of the tension loosening its hold on her shoulders. For a moment she looked like herself again.

“Have a good day, sir. It was nice to catch up.”

Roy didn’t beam at the Lieutenant like a mooning dolt in the middle of the cafeteria, no. He was just...stretching his face. “You as well, Lieutenant.”

He missed her already.

It would have been suspicious to leave immediately after she did, so he made himself finish his sandwich and do all of the paperwork he brought to the cafeteria. At last, he escaped the omnipresent eyes of their fellow soldiers and went to hide in the bathroom.

Roy uncapped his pen with his teeth and started writing down the letters from his list of names.

_Scar...Elric...Lucy...Ian...Miles...Buccaneer...Rudolph...Avery...Dean…_

The words started forming on the page.

_York...Ida...Sugar...Havoc...Oscar...Mike…_

The pen almost fell out of his mouth as the words formed.

_**SELIM BRADLEY IS HOMUNCULUS.** _

_What the hell?_ Roy thought, his mind spinning with questions. What? How? Why? How did she know this? How were they watching her? Because they _were_ watching her - there was nothing else that explained her abrupt, total change in character. They were holding her hostage and watching her and threatening her and of course she was fucking terrified because she was strong and amazing and powerful and capable, but she was only human. And she had been put under more stress than any one person ever deserved.

No wonder she was withdrawing, going cold and professional and silent. Pushing him away and holding him at arm’s length. It protected him, but it also protected her. And she needed all the protection she could get right now.

And if him giving her a wide berth was what she needed to stave off their watch and keep safe, he would do it. As long as necessary, as long as she wanted. And if this thing between them crumbled after this - if whatever feelings she may have held for him shriveled and died from distance, from danger, from time - it was worth the sacrifice. As long as she was safe.

~

Havoc looked much better than he had the last time Roy stopped by. He was sitting up properly and his color was better. He had been working out more, Havoc told Roy cheerfully, because “it’s not like there’s anything else to do all day.” He was making leaps and bounds in his physical therapy and he could stand up now without almost passing out.

“And, yeah, there’s not a ton of heavy lifting I can do in the chair,” Havoc was telling Roy, “But I can work the phones and the books and tally inventory for the store, easy. Ma and Dad are trying to expand the business, so having me able to help more with the bookkeeping and shit will actually be super helpful.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Roy said. He was, even if he felt guilty for effectively ending Havoc’s military career. He knew it would pass, but he couldn’t erase the image of Havoc lying unconscious in the Third Laboratory from his mind. It was as if the scene was pasted over his eyes, filtering the healthy, living Havoc through the memory of him three-quarters dead. He mentally shook himself free of the memory. “When do you get out of here?”

Havoc held up his fingers to make air quotes. “‘Soon.’ There’s still a benchmark or two I need to make in terms of my PT and mental assessments, and the military needs a couple signatures from me, but then I’m done. Dad’s been through to pack up my apartment and send my things back home, so that’s all settled.”

“I would have helped, Havoc,” Roy said.

“I know you would’ve,” Havoc said. “But you’ve got enough on your plate, don’t’cha?”

“I’d make time,” Roy argued.

“I know, Colonel,” Havoc said. “But I hear the rumors, and I’ve been able to keep in touch with Breda and Fulman some. Hawkeye’s been by a few times, too. They all tell me you’re working yourself to the bone. If it comes down to sleeping or seeing me, I’d rather you get some rest.”

Roy ducked his head, smiling. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

“Not Lieutenant anymore,” Havoc said cheerfully. “They gave me a commendation and an honorable discharge. Once I’m out of this hospital, it’s back to civvies for me.”

Roy was glad to see Havoc had passed through his depression phase and seemed to accept his new reality. Selfishly, he was also grateful Havoc did not seem to hold the events at the Third Laboratory against him. He wasn’t sure he could have handled another loss on this losing streak.

There was a knock on the door. A pretty, red-headed nurse poked her head inside.

“Lieutenant Havoc, sir, you have a visitor for you. Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

Roy’s stomach bottomed out. Havoc beamed ear to ear.

“Aw, sweet! Send her in.” The nurse left to fetch the Lieutenant, and Havoc turned his grin to Roy. “We’re getting the gang back together! Like old times, huh, Colo -?” Havoc wrinkled his nose. It seemed he had finally cottoned on to Roy’s escalating panic. “Why are you making that face?”

“Havoc,” Roy said quickly, “I _cannot_ be seen here. I’m sorry, I’ll explain, but I need to hide, quickly. Is there a closet, or, or a side room I can duck into? Something sneaky, or subtle, or…”

The hallway outside echoed with the soft click of approaching footsteps. Utterly panicking now, Roy did the first thing he could think of and threw himself onto the empty bed. He drew the curtains around himself and sat on the bed, pulling his feet up onto the mattress so they wouldn’t show from under the curtains.

Roy couldn’t see Havoc’s face, but he _knew_ the other man was holding back a laugh. In a slightly choked voice, Havoc said, _“Very_ subtle, sir.”

“Shut _up,”_ Roy hissed.

There was a knock on the door. “Havoc?”

“Hawkeye!” Havoc cried cheerfully. “Good to see you. You _just_ missed the Colonel.”

Roy wanted to hit the man. The Lieutenant approached Havoc’s bed, taking the empty chair Roy had just vacated. On second thought, the chair would still be warm from Roy sitting in it for the past hour. Maybe he could hold off on hitting him just yet.

“That’s too bad,” the Lieutenant said. Roy wanted to frown at the laughing note in her voice, but he had missed her too much to be anything more than grateful at hearing it. He could see the outline of her body - she must have the day off, as she was in her civilian clothes - and the sharp lines of her hair through the curtains.

It felt stupid and childish and cruel, sitting on his old hospital bed and pretending he wasn’t there. It hurt to finally be in the same room as her, to hear her laugh and her voice as she caught up with Havoc, and not be able to see her.

But she was safe, she was _safe,_ Roy told himself, repeating the mantra over and over in his head. It’s worth it because it’s safe, and then this will all be over, and they’ll…

He didn’t have anything charted after that.

“I’ll drop in again soon,” the Lieutenant said after handing Havoc a packet of cigarettes. She turned to walk away, her heels clicking on the floor. “Oh, I almost forgot - Rebecca wanted me to say hello for her. What ever happened there?”

Havoc still sounded happy, but a wistful sort of tone entered his voice when he answered, “Nothing, really. Transfers and work and two young, dumb, hurting kids returning from war - it was never the right time. And now I’m, y’know.” Roy didn’t have to see to know Havoc was generally indicating the lower half of his body. “Seems like that ship has sailed.”

“Have you talked to _her_ about this?” the Lieutenant asked. Roy could picture her imperious face, her right eyebrow arching in question. Her lips would either be narrowed in an expression of mild disappointment or pursed against a smile, depending on the effect she was going for. Roy guessed her aim was “playful correction.” It was a mode he knew all too well.

“Nah,” Havoc said, sounding at least a bit abashed. “And I know you’re going to say something like let her make the choice. And you’re right, it’s her decision to make. But I’d feel weird reaching out now. Like it’s been too long, you know? Maybe it’s best to let sleeping dogs lay.”

Riza chewed on that thought for a minute. “I think Rebecca may surprise you yet. You’re not the person you were when you came back from Ishval, but neither is she. And I don’t think she would let something like your injury stop her if you were what she wanted.”

Roy knew Havoc was grinning at that, because Riza was good and kind and always knew just what to say. “Thanks, Hawkeye. You think I still have a shot, even if it’s been years?”

“I think you won’t know till you ask,” the Lieutenant said softly. She was quiet for a moment, musing over her next words. “The years go fast. Hold on while you can.”

Roy had to pinch his eyes tightly closed, biting his lip from making a noise. There was a forlorn note to her voice that struck a chord with the melancholy in his chest. _I’m here,_ Roy wished he could say. _I’m right here, Lieutenant, I’m sorry, I want to be there but I can’t, please forgive me._

“Will do, Hawkeye,” Havoc said. “You take care, yeah?”

“Of course. I’ll stop by when they get set to release you.” Her heels tapped on the floor as she made her way to the door. Once she had her hand on the handle, she turned back, as if just remembering something.

“Oh,” she said casually, “And tell the Colonel I say hello, next you see him.”

Roy wished he could have laughed. Of course she had known he was here. He waited until the door closed and her footsteps faded before he allowed himself to breathe again.

“Hear that?” Havoc asked from the other side of the curtain. “The lady says _hi,_ Colonel.”

Roy grumbled something rude under his breath and tugged the curtains open. The stirring air kicked up the lingering scents of gunpowder and her perfume. Havoc was smirking at him, tugging out a cigarette and lighting it. “So, you wanna tell me what the hell that was about?”

Roy scrubbed his palms over his eyes. “We’re under constant surveillance. It’s better and safer like this. It’ll arouse too much suspicion if I have private contact with her.”

“Arousing private contact, huh?” Havoc asked, because he was a child. Roy scowled.

“I don’t care you’re not in the army anymore, Havoc, I _will_ write you up for insubordination.”

Havoc chortled, huffing out clouds of smoke like a crappy blond dragon in need of a shave. A bit of ash fluttered from the end of his cigarette to float softly to the floor.

“Speaking of insubordination, I guess since I’m leaving I can ask you this question now,” Havoc said thoughtfully. He took a puff on his cigarette and sent Roy a look. “So, are we gonna talk about how you’ve been in love with her for years, or…?”

Roy’s mouth opened. Then it closed. And opened again. He repeated that a few times, gaping like a fish out of water and not at all like a man who had played chess with human lives for the past eight years. “Wh - you - I - what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you,” Havoc pointed at Roy, “And the Lieutenant,” he pointed to the closed door, “And how you two have been in love for as long as I’ve known you.” He interlocked his fingers together. “I mean, you did well hiding it. Like, it was _years_ till I was sure. But that kind of thing leaks through.”

Roy scrubbed a hand through his hair. He felt himself flushing a shade of red that would rival Fullmetal’s dumb trench coat. “It’s not - we’re not _in love,_ Havoc. She’s just my best friend.”

The words perfectly encapsulated everything she was to him and left out absolutely everything else. What an insane contradiction. Maybe Roy really was starting to crack from the pressure.

Havoc scoffed around his cigarette. “Didn’t the Lieutenant say not to speak for ladies? She can decide how she feels well enough for herself.”

“Then stop putting words in her mouth!”

Havoc shrugged. “Fine, fine. But I’m calling it like I see it.”

Roy looked at his feet. His elbows rested on his knees, hands folded together. He ran his right thumb over his left, thinking. Havoc had always been an excellent agent - good at subterfuge, better with a gun, smarter than he looked. It was easy for marks to hear his country drawl and underestimate him. Roy long thought he had cured himself of that bad habit, but apparently not. If Havoc had seen this _thing_ between him and the Lieutenant for years, then he really didn’t have any legs to stand on trying to deny it. It would waste both of their time and make Roy just look like an even bigger fool who had mucked everything up.

“She can do better,” Roy said softly.

“Oh, I’m not arguing that,” Havoc teased. Roy glared at him.

“You could _pretend_ to be a bit supportive.”

“Fine.” Havoc’s shit-eating grin hadn’t moved a jot. “You say she can do better. So be better. Become a man who can accept her love and know he deserves it.”

“But I’ve -”

“We know what you’ve done,” Havoc interrupted gently. “We _do,_ Mustang. We don’t follow you and care about you and support you in spite of it. We do because of it. Because you’ve been in the filth with the rest of us and you want to make this place a bit better. Because you’re working for it. It’s not about clearing the slate. That’s impossible. But beating yourself up for the rest of your life doesn’t help you or the people you hurt or this country. Did it ever occur to you that Hawkeye loves the same things in you that you love in her?”

He sat up taller on his pillows, inhaled and the last of his cigarette. Roy was too speechless to remind him he could only have one a day when he reached for the pack again. “So get over yourself and stop feeling guilty for being alive and just _live._ The years go fast,” Havoc repeated softly. Roy could imagine Havoc thinking about Rebecca Catalina. “Hold on when you can.” He held out a hand. “And take a damn cigarette for the road.”

Roy blinked, completely taken aback. “Uhm. Thanks, but. I don’t smoke?”

He said it like a question, like Havoc hadn’t just upended Roy’s entire life and worldview in a few sentences. Apparently that therapy he’d been getting was really working for him. Maybe Roy ought to try it, once all this is over (supposing he’s not dead or executed).

Havoc smirked as he dangled the box toward him. “I think you’ll want this one.”

And Roy saw the rolled-up slip of paper poking out of the container. _How -?_

The Lieutenant. Roy was caught between frustration at her for taking the risk to pass on this message and awe at her nerve in the face of constant surveillance. Leave it to Riza Hawkeye to figure out a way around their complications while Roy hid behind a curtain.

Shaking his head, Roy accepted the “cigarette” and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, I’m off. Some of us still have work to do.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a mess without us,” Havoc said. It was half-joke, half-observation, Roy knew. He let himself laugh at that, just a bit.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I am.”

He left the hospital. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the street. No one was around as Roy slipped the paper from his pocket and unfurled it.

_Be prepared for the coming spring, when the Promised Day arrives. The North and East will make their move._

The spring...that was just over three months away.

Roy let the paper slip through his fingers. He snapped once, releasing a tongue of flame that left the paper curling into cinders before it ever touched the ground. He ducked his head to hide his smile.

He had work to do.

**xx.**

“You’re _pining,_ Riza.”

Riza curled her lip. It was because she was annoyed, not pouting. “I am _not.”_

Rebecca sipped her drink. Because she was an adult, she replied, “Are, too.”

“Am _not -”_

“You’re _both_ pining, and it’s insufferable,” Olivier said. She set down three shot glasses full of clear liquid. _“And_ Mustang stopped by to congratulate me on my promotion and looked like a lost, kicked puppy.” She shoved a glass toward Riza. “Drink this and shut up.”

Riza frowned but accepted the glass. She lifted it to her nose, sniffing. “What is this?”

“Why do you smell everything I hand you?” Olivier demanded. “It’s the highest proof liquor I could find in this bar. Drink it and screw Mustang out of your system, or call him and just screw _him,_ or cry about it and move on. But quit _moping.”_ She tossed back the liquor. “I can’t believe you’re actually _farther_ away from sorting out your shit than you were five years ago.”

Riza grimaced at everything Olivier said except for the part about getting drunk with the only two friends she still had. Even if Rebecca had to return to East City tomorrow and Olivier was too busy to see her more than this “chance” encounter offered.

She threw back the shot like a woman much younger and spluttered over it. “Olivier, you have _terrible_ taste in alcohol.”

“That’s Major General, or Miss Olivier, to you,” Olivier said. She nudged Riza’s shoulder to move further into the booth so she could sit.

“I’m still gonna call you Ollie,” Rebecca said. She took the shot Olivier offered her and wrinkled her nose like she had bitten into something sour. “Vile.”

“I think I’d prefer that old Briggs moonshine,” Riza said. “Did you bring any down?”

“I did, but since I’m not sure when I’ll be back, I am not sharing,” Olivier said. “Get drunk on your own dime for once.”

“‘For once?’” Rebecca quoted. “You act like we do this every weekend, not once every five years.”

Olivier considered that. “Fair enough. Hang on.”

And she stood and went to the bar. Riza and Rebecca hovered their heads together, watching her stalk through the crowd.

“What do you think she’s getting?” Rebecca asked. “Hundred cenz on gin.”

“I’ll take that. Hundred on rum,” Riza said. Her stomach was already churning at the idea of liquor. But another part of her - the one that was exhausted and tired and angry and chafing against the noose around her neck - wanted to just have a night, a _single_ night, where she didn’t fear for her life. She wanted to let loose and spend time with her _two friends_ and see someone that wasn’t her dog.

“Deal.”

Olivier returned to their table and set a bottle of honey-brown liquid on their table. “Whiskey, ladies. Cough up.”

Riza’s mouth fell open. “How did you -?”

“I didn’t become the youngest and only female general in this military by slouching,” Olivier sniffed. Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. “So give it here. Two hundred cenz, yeah?”

Grumbling about cheating, Riza and Rebecca tugged the notes out of their purses and handed them over. Riza poured the whiskey into her glass - emphasizing the _whiskey_ in her whiskey sour - and sipped.

“This is good,” Riza said, surprised. Olivier’s eyes flashed as she returned to her seat.

“You think the head of the Armstrong family would drink _well whiskey?”_

“Remember that moonshine?” Riza reminded her.

Olivier must have been more stressed than she let on, because she laughed at that. She poured a measure of whiskey into her own glass and Rebecca’s. “Touché, Lieutenant.”

She lifted her glass and sipped, her pinky out. Setting it down, she asked, “Where were we? Oh, yes. You’re both pining. Want to talk about it?”

“What, with you?” Riza asked. The question slipped out before she could stop it, as did the incredulous tone.

Olivier rolled her eyes. “I have three younger sisters and _know Alex._ I am, unfortunately, well-versed in matters of the heart. And... all that shit, I don’t know.”

She buried her face into her drink like she could drink it through her nose like a straw.

Rebecca reached over to poke and Olivier’s cheek. “Softie Ollie,” she said in a sing-song voice. She had arrived before them to play up this “chance” meeting and had started drinking early accordingly. Olivier grabbed Rebecca’s finger and glared.

“Shut _up._ I have a reputation to maintain.” Her glare was undercut by the blush over her cheeks. “This is a one-time offer considering this _fortuitous_ reunion.”

A silence fell over the table. Rebecca giggled into her drink and whispered, “softie Ollie.” Riza shrugged and sipped her whiskey.

“Fine. But I’m not going first.”

“And I’m _not_ going,” Olivier said, her tone acerbic. She was the adamant in the way only those who had something to hide could be. Riza _very much_ wanted to ask about that, but she wanted to respect Olivier’s boundaries more.

Riza and Olivier both eyed Rebecca. She rolled her eyes.

“I told Riza earlier: all the good guys are taken. Or don’t have enough money.”

“I’d introduce you to my brother, but I just took the family fortune from under his feet,” Olivier said casually.

“Nah, that’s fine. He’s a bit... _big_ for me,” Rebecca said.

Olivier choked on her drink, snarling, “I’ll have you court-martialed.”

“Sounds like you do care about him, after all,” Riza teased. Olivier grimaced.

“As _if._ I just do not need to hear about how women view my brother. _Eugh.”_ She wrinkled her nose.

Riza shook her head. To Rebecca, she said, “I said hello to Havoc for you.”

Rebecca smiled to hear that. “How is he? I know he’s injured. I wanted to visit him but didn’t have time.”

Riza thought back on their conversation in his hospital room. The way his smile turned bittersweet and nostalgic remembering his old flame. Riza never would have said this to anyone but the Colonel - she’s pretty sure she did at some point, though - but she had a feeling that one of the reasons none of his relationships lasted was because he was chasing a memory. Through no fault of their own, none of Havoc’s dates could measure up to the small torch Havoc had kept lit for Rebecca Catalina.

“He’s alright,” Riza assured her. “He’s getting discharged soon. I think he’d appreciate a phone call.” Her smile widened. “And, it’s not a military officer, _but_ he’ll probably be doing well in the family business.”

Rebecca scoffed into her drink. “That ship has sailed, Riza.”

“Interesting,” Riza mused. “He said something similar.”

“Oh, God, not some he-said, she-said shit,” Olivier groaned. She pointed a finger at Rebecca. “This Havoc fellow - did he make you happy?”

Rebecca blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question. It’s weak.” Olivier had not moved her finger. “Is he a good man? Not a perfect man, but a _good_ man?”

Rebecca sat up straight. Without hesitation, she said, “Yeah.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes.” Rebecca’s eyes widened at the emphatic statement, like she didn’t expect to feel so strongly on the matter. She eyed her whiskey, mentally tallying how many she’d had.

“You’re not drunk, Catalina,” Olivier said. She downed the rest of her glass and topped it off. “Well. You _are._ But drunk enough to be honest. That’s just the truth. Decide what you’re going to do with it.”

Now that she had magically sorted out all of Rebecca’s issues with the surgical exactness of a bull in a china shop, Olivier turned to Riza. “Your turn.”

_Oh, no,_ Riza thought. She took a fortifying sip of her drink. “Yeah?”

Olivier considered her for a long minute. Finally, she shrugged. “You’re fucked.”

Riza choked on her drink. Liquor burned along her sinuses as she hacked it out. _“That’s_ all you have to say?”

Olivier chortled. Her eyes were sparkling. “Mostly. What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, actually. Something supportive.”

Olivier tilted her head thoughtfully. Then, she reached forward to place one gloved hand on Riza’s shoulder. She deadpanned, “There, there.”

“Thanks.” Riza finished her glass and went for one more. “I just. There’s a lot of other things happening. It feels stupid to worry about my own petty troubles.”

“You’re a talented woman, Lieutenant,” Olivier said. “I was under the impression you could multitask.”

“Shut up, Olivier.”

The Major General smirked. “But really - being a woman in the military is a nightmare. We need to be twice as tough to be taken seriously, work twice as hard to make it to our next promotion. There’s this idea that we’re coldly efficient automatons, rather than flesh-and-blood creatures with hearts and minds and sex drives. You’re not undermining women in the military or your mission by having feelings, even if the man you have feelings for is a fucking moron.”

Riza sighed. “It’s just. Of course I _felt_ something for him.” She gnawed at her lip before finally saying aloud, for the first time in months, “We kissed once.”

Rebecca coughed as she inhaled a gasp of her drink. Cackling, she said, “Well done, Ri! How was he in bed?”

“Oh, um-” Riza said. Her mind spun back to the night they kissed, when he took charge _(about damn time he showed some initiative)_ and pushed her onto his desk, tugged the clip from her hair, ground his hips into her core until her back arched and toes curled. She remembered studying him in the car on the way to Central Command, his long fingers on the steering wheel and three buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the full line of his throat. She’d had to squeeze her thighs together and remind herself that he was already a terrible driver, lest she reach over and do something stupid. “We only just kissed. Literally.”

Rebecca stared at her in utter disappointment. “Oh my _God.”_

Riza sipped her drink. This had the chance of turning into something sad and maudlin, but at last the words she kept at bay for months were coming and she was too tired to tamp them back down. “We kissed, and we both agreed we would only do it once, except obviously I want to do it again, but then everything fell apart and we never talked about it! And now we’re separated and things are weird and awkward and it feels like it’s my fault when I know it’s not, at least not completely.”

She studied her whiskey and threw the rest of it back. Her world was going warm and fuzzy on the edges. It reminded her of the time Roy joined her with a glass of water and a gentle ear. “And he makes me happy and he’s a good man and I miss him, and I can’t do anything about it. So I’m going to get drunk and get back to work and then when the dust settles we’re going to talk.”

“Hear, hear!” Rebecca cried, raising her glass in a toast. “To Riza at last getting dicked down!”

“Shut the hell up, I’ve had _sex_ before -”

“So Ollie,” Rebecca interrupted, leaning towards Olivier on the table. “Who do _you_ miss? Don’t think you’re getting out of this one.”

“I’m not afraid to pull rank _or_ court-martial you for insubordination,” Olivier replied, though her lips were twitching.

“I’m not scared of you,” Rebecca stated. She leaned over, resting her chin on her hands. Riza mirrored her.

Olivier frowned. She scanned the room, seeming to gauge her ability to kill them both with her sword in the middle of a loud, crowded bar. Her frown deepened into a scowl when she realized that she probably couldn’t get away with it. Recognizing she was outnumbered, she reached for her glass and downed it.

“Come _on -”_ Rebecca said hotly.

Olivier lifted a finger to halt Rebecca’s words. She poured herself another glass and drained that one, too.

“It’s a question, Olivier. We’re not coming to amputate in the field.”

“Shut up, Hawkeye,” Olivier said. She leaned towards them. “If word of this gets out, I will kill you both.”

“Oh, I’m _much_ too drunk to remember this,” Rebecca slurred cheerfully.

_“Who_ would I tell?” Riza asked. “My dog?”

Olivier nodded. Finally, she said, completely expressionless, “It’s my husband.”

Silence hovered over the table for a solid thirty seconds. Riza kept waiting for Olivier to crack, telling them she was joking, or for her to share more. Olivier was just staring back at them like she was facing the firing squad. Finally, Rebecca broke their standoff, a Cheshire grin almost cracking her face as she crooned:

_“Softie-Ollie.”_

Olivier kicked her in the ankle.

~

True to her word, Riza awoke the next morning feeling like an anvil had been dropped onto her head. She popped some medication, drank some water, took Hayate for a walk, and bought herself coffee and a pastry. Then she went to work.

They had three months to prepare for the Promised Day. Which meant that she had a lot of catching up to do. The Colonel was out there, planning and making his moves with General Grumman, Olivier, and his mother. Which left Riza to find more people to add to their motley, treasonous little crew.

Edward was in hiding, as was Alphonse. She heard intel that Al was in Liore assisting with the rebuilding, but she had not heard anything of Edward. Winry was also hiding, and Riza was not going to bring her into this fray. Rebecca and Havoc were on board already - Havoc collecting as many supplies as he could get his hands on, Rebecca keeping her ear on the ground for information from Eastern. She was their main intelligence networker for the Eastern Command Center. After some careful snooping and a whole lot of telephone games, Riza learned that Fulman was their inside man in the North. Because she couldn’t be everywhere at once, Riza took to having lunch with Major Armstrong once a week on random days, idly chatting about nothing, and she refined her plans based off of the intelligence he had access to in his position.

Riza reached out to Breda under cover of letters. They exchanged coded messages over dozens of sheets of paper each, talking of the weather, their families, plays and books and music, reminiscing on old times. He offered his assistance in any way he could on his very first letter back, and he spent the next three months offering detailed critiques of her logistics, asking important, obvious questions that Riza had not thought of yet herself -

_How are we going to transport these weapons and soldiers without arousing suspicion? Who is our driver? What is our route? How will we communicate on the Day? What are we going to do when we are discovered? Are we shooting to kill? How can we shape how the media covers this story, so they remain on our side? What are we going to do about Madame Fuhrer Bradley? If we plan to protect her, how will we keep her safe? Who do we trust to keep her alive?_

The questions went on and on, and with each one the plan for the Promised Day grew more solid and more complex.

Riza also was able to reconnect with Fuery - first through a letter to the front and then, once she got a radio jerry rigged in her apartment, through modified Morse code. This code was one of Fuery’s making, giving them an added layer of security on top of their custom radio frequency.

One night, while Riza was pouring over a city map working out a potential route and safe place for the Madame Fuhrer, her phone rang. Once, twice, and cutting off sharply, the code for an incoming message. Riza rushed over to her little radio and put on her headphones, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor with her pad and paper.

_Ginger. Supply transport snag. Must ship from E directly. Next?_

Riza swore at Catalina’s (“Have I told you, Riza?” she had asked cheerfully over the phone at the beginning of this. “I’m getting the cutest new cat in! He’s orange, I want to name him Ginger.”) message. Havoc had arranged a massive shipment of Xingese weapons, but they refused to ship across the desert. Selling weapons in support of a military coup, however well-intentioned, was technically an act of war, so the Xingese were staying out of this as much as they could while still making a ridiculous amount of money. 

(Not that they publicized they were planning a coup. But there really wasn’t much other use for these kinds of armaments.)

Riza tapped her cheek with her pencil, drawing graphite lines all over her face. _Come on, think, think,_ she told herself. _Who do we know, who can we -_

_Lan Fan._

_Fu._

_Maria Ross._

Riza sat back up with a gasp. It was perfect - Lan Fan’s grandfather had been part of the group that escorted Ross across the desert, so if anyone knew how to get in contact with Ross, it would be him. Lan Fan would not be far from her grandfather during her recovery. And she could get in contact with Lan Fan through Dr. Knox, who had referred Lan Fan to an automail specialist in Xing.

Riza jumped to her feet. She shoved her feet into real pants and made herself put on a bra _(ugh)_ and grabbed her keys.

“Bye, baby,” Riza said to Hayate, blowing him a kiss. “I’ll be back soon.”

The drive to Dr. Knox’s house only took twenty minutes if she had the luxury of driving places like a normal person, but because she was a paranoid wreck she took side streets and doubled-back and only arrived at Dr. Knox’s house after forty-five minutes. She raced up his walkway and hammered on his door.

The door opened, and Riza found herself face-to-face with a man a few years younger than she. He had a friendly face and thick brown hair and, upon closer inspection, Dr. Knox’s eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Riza said. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all,” the man said, opening the door a little more. His eyes were wide and guileless. “Is everything alright? Let me get my father.”

“Oh, thank you,” Riza said softly, stepping into the house. It was significantly cleaner than it was the last time she had seen it. Dishes were clean and put away, the rooms scrubbed down and the trash taken out.

“Lieutenant?” Dr. Knox entered the room. “Is everything alright?”

Riza paused, flicking her gaze back and forth between Dr. Knox and his son. “Dr. Knox,” she started. “I need your help.”

**xxi.**

Roy was right: they really could fit an entire battalion in the Armstrong mansion.

Under the guise of construction workers and suppliers, the Briggs troops were steadily and comfortably overtaking the mansion. The few times he made it into the mansion, he was amazed at the _grandeur_ of the old estate. The stair railings bore intricate fine gold filigree in the shape of laurels; the massive courtyard and gardens boasted family-crafted stone statues of Armstrongs of the past and topiaries shaped like animals; the place had some eighty rooms lined with hardwood and plush blue carpet. Roy’s entire childhood home could have fit in the ballroom five times over.

It was kind of gross, the gaudiness and excess.

“I see why the General prefers Briggs,” Captain Buccaneer said to Roy in one of those meetings. He had been summoned at the last minute by an irritable secret memo hidden in his files and an even more irritable phone call in which Buccaneer told him to get his ass down to the Armstrong mansion. “I feel like I’m in a museum, scared I’ll be booted out if I scuff my shoes too loud. If the automail scratches the paint job, I might be court-martialed.”

Roy huffed out a soft chuckle. Funny and relatable as Buccaneer was, he wanted to know what the hell he was doing here. This unexpected meeting was cutting into his luxurious three hours of sleep.

“What exactly is it I’m needed for, Captain?” Roy asked as Buccaneer led him along long hallways.

“No fuckin’ idea, to be honest,” Captain Buccaneer said, “He just...showed up, said he’d only speak to you. In here.”

The Captain opened a door and showed Roy into an enormous library. Comprising three stories on the western end of the house, the place smelled of vellum and old books and dark wood and dust. Sitting in a plush blue velvet chair in front of a roaring fire sat a familiar dark-haired figure.

“Ling Yao?” Roy asked as he approached. He stopped abruptly as the man stood and turned to face him.

The creature who stood in front of him wore Ling Yao’s face, but Roy knew immediately that this was not the prince. He wore tight-fitting black clothes now rather than his traditional colorful Xingese robes. His eyes were wider and shone with a wine-red glow in the light. On his hand was an ouroboros tattoo.

“‘Fraid not, Colonel,” the kid said. Ling Yao’s voice came out of the creature’s mouth, but it sounded off, like someone was playing a violin at the wrong angle. He grinned and his teeth were angular, sharp. “The name’s Greed.”

_Oh, fuck,_ Roy thought. He glanced back and saw that Buccaneer had left him here. Either he thought Roy could handle himself well enough to return to his dinner, or he shared the Major General’s concern for his health and general well-being. He’d settle for an even mix of the two.

“Don’t worry, Colonel, I’m just here to do a favor for the kid.” Greed tapped himself on the side of the head. “Smart, testy little thing. _Very_ loud. Teenagers, right?”

“Right,” Roy agreed, because he was completely at a loss here. “What do you want… Greed?”

“Just information. The kid said you would be the best one to ask,” Greed said cheerfully. He tossed himself over the arm of his comfortable chair. “Pop a squat.”

Bemused, but assured that the homunculus was not interested in starting a fight, Roy carefully sat across from Greed.

“The girl,” Greed started. He made a face like he was listening for a voice a room over. “Lan Fan. Black hair, dark eyes, one arm? I’m not telling him all your flowery nonsense, you little punk. Sorry, Mustang. The kid always needs to get the last word. He’s very fond of this girl, you see. I keep telling him as a prince, he can get whichever one he wants, but he won’t bite. Seems only this girl will do.”

“I...see.” This was _not_ what Roy was expecting. He thought months back to the last he had heard of Lan Fan. “She’s...alright, Ling. Greed. Whoever you are, whoever is listening. The last I heard her grandfather took her back to Xing to recover. That was a few months ago, though.”

“See? She’s fine,” Greed crowed. It was very bizarre to watch a man have a full conversation with himself and the second entity sharing his body. Then he went silent again, eyes vacant like he was again straining his ears to listen to a far-off call. “The kid also wants to know how that hot little blonde of yours is doing.” He paused. “Oh, sorry, that was rude.”

“Yes, it was,” Roy said coldly.

“If it helps, he actually referred to her as your right-hand woman and said she was kind and ‘professional,’ bleh. I just tend towards the badass blonde type. Given your whole playboy vibe, I assumed you’d be surrounded by sexy women,” Greed assured him.

“It doesn’t,” Roy said. “Are we done here?”

“Oooh, testy!” Greed observed gleefully. “What’s wrong, Mustang? Miss someone keeping your bed warm at night?”

“I _will_ set you on fire,” Roy snapped. He lifted his hand in threat. “I didn’t come here to be mocked and I won’t let you talk about the Lieutenant like an object. I’ve answered your inane questions. We’re done here.”

He remembered the Lieutenant’s words from years ago. How she hated going undercover in those beautiful, slinky little dresses. She said she felt like a piece of meat, an auction piece haggled over rather than a person. It was part of why the team had trended away from undercover missions and relied more heavily on subterfuge in recent years.

Instead of looking cowed, Greed positively beamed. “Oho, not just testy. I detect some _fondness_ there, Colonel! And…” He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring and inhaling deeply like he could smell Roy’s tempestuous emotions. “Oh, _delicious._ I can practically _taste_ the muzzled yearning. The angst. The _ambition._ It’s too bad this kid got to me first, Colonel, because I think you and I would have done some _great_ things. Not the least of which would have been some of the bed-rocking you want to do with your Lieutenant. Or have you? There’s a lot to unpack there - oh, shit!”

Roy had heard enough. He snapped his fingers, shooting a warning flare in Greed’s direction. It faded into nothing before hitting his stupid face, but Greed whooped, delighted.

“I’ve touched a nerve.” He tilted his head. “Which, if my guess is correct, is more action than you’ve gotten with her. I’m gonna guess...second base?”

“You little _fucker_.” Roy couldn’t remember standing, but he was on his feet and he was grasping at Greed’s collar, tugging him half-out of his chair. He wasn’t even sure why he was so angry. But something about hearing Greed’s speculations and seeing his lascivious smirk made his skin crawl.

“You’re pissy because I’m taking all the emotions you like to swallow and spewing them out in the open like fertilizer,” Greed told him. “It’s one of my specialties. Like recognizes like. We’re kindred spirits, Mustang.”

“Like hell we are!” Roy hissed. Greed laughed, loud and cackling, and suddenly Roy was too tired to do this. He would not give Greed the fight he was so obviously craving. He dropped Greed unceremoniously back into the chair and stalked a few paces back to throw himself down into his chair.

“You wouldn’t be so angry if I wasn’t so right,” Greed told him. He reclined in the chair again, kicking his long legs over the armrest “So, Colonel, assuage the kid’s and my curiosity. What is _up_ with you and your darling Lieutenant?”

“Nothing.”

“Bzzt.” Greed made a sound like a game show buzzer. He looked almost bored. “Lie. Told you, I’ve got a good nose for these things. You radiate repressed tension and romantic longing like a lighthouse. It’s gross. Completely cramps your otherwise iconic image of a smooth-talking, rank-climbing war hero. _Dammit,_ I wish I’d gotten to you first.” He hesitated. “Yeah, yeah, kid, I know an empire better suits my tastes. Besides, Xingese food sounds much better than what you’ve got here.”

Something about this exchange, for whatever reason, seemed to tear down the last of Roy’s walls. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the strangeness of the situation, or how much he missed the Lieutenant, or all of it or none of it. Maybe it was because his head was so full of his plans for the future and his question about the Lieutenant's place in it. Maybe it was because his head echoed with the constant question of _Amestris or her, Amestris or her._ But something snapped, and before he could stop himself from sharing these things with a weird, bratty, crude homunculus, Roy confessed:

“We kissed once.”

Greed watched him, waiting for him to go on. When Roy didn’t elaborate, a bemused, condescending grin split his face. It twisted Ling’s handsome face into something grotesque.

“Once?” He repeated. He held up his hands to make air quotes. “You ‘kissed?’ _Once?”_

“Once was enough!” Roy snapped. He rose from his chair, his voice rising without his permission. Where was his control? His mask? He could wear it with homunculi and in the face of certain death and in chess matches and in front of the Fuhrer - he could play whatever part he needed to be, the flirt or the statesman, but wherever Riza - _Lieutenant Hawkeye, Lieutenant, that’s her rank, that’s who she is_ \- was involved, he lost all control.

Greed cackled. It sounded forced, affected. It was designed to echo. It bounced off the bookshelves like there were ten of him. “You thought once would be enough? You didn’t think that caving _once_ was like working up to heroin and then stopping cold?” He spread his hands. “I _am_ Greed. I know it when I see it. I see your wants. You want _everything,_ Roy Mustang. Including her. _Especially_ her.”

“She’s not a thing,” Roy snarled. “She’s not a thing to be possessed.”

_(Chest to chest, hands winding in her hair, her fingers scrabbling for purchase along his collar, an open-mouthed kiss that was fierce and messy and claiming her, claiming him. Her legs bracketing his, hips grinding into hers. She fisted her hands in his hair, gasping out a sound that was half moan, half delirious laugh. She could be his, wanted to be his, just as much as he was hers, had always been, would be hers, even if the only way he knew how to show it was to burn her father’s words out of her back and drag her into hell because he trusted her enough to shoot him in the head.)_

Roy whirled around to leave, planning to storm out of the library like a man fifteen years younger, but a voice called him -

“It’s not bad to be a little greedy.”

Roy stopped. Confused, he turned back around. Ling still stood there, but his face was relaxed, his body language more open.

“He’s doing a bad job expressing his case,” Ling told him. He shrugged. “So we traded places. It’s not a sin to be greedy, Colonel.”

“The homunculus sharing your body might disagree.”

Ling laughed. “That’s fair enough. What I mean is - don’t conflate greed with want. Of course you shouldn’t go overboard, or want things for the wrong reasons. But it’s not a sin to want things.” He tilted his head. “What do you want, Colonel?”

“I need to -”

“Not need,” Ling interrupted. _“Want._ What do you _want?”_

Roy stopped. What did he _want?_

He wanted to defeat Fuhrer Bradley and Father and the homunculi. He wanted the genocide in Ishval officially recognized. He wanted to bring Maes’ attacker to justice. He wanted to rebuild Amestris into a representative democracy. He wanted to drive Riza out to the country, miles and miles away from the nearest telephone, and ravish her head to toe for a week.

He wanted it all, the law of equivalent exchange be damned.

He didn’t want to choose.

~

Roy got the phone call on a Tuesday afternoon.

The operator spoke pleasantly. “I have a call from an outside line for you, Colonel Mustang. A Dr. Knox?”

Roy frowned and sat up straighter. “Put him through, please.”

There was a click. Roy said, “Dr. Knox?”

“Your prescription is ready for pickup,” Dr. Knox told him gruffly. Roy almost fell out of his chair. “I’m not a damn pharmacy, so if you want to get it before I close up shop for the day, you’ll have to come get it now.”

Roy swallowed. Words and emotions were welling up his throat, but his voice was mercifully even as he said, “I understand, doctor. I’m on my way.”

Roy hung up the phone with a quiet click. He stared at the phone like it was a wonder.

_Your prescription is ready for pickup._ Code for - for - Roy couldn’t even let himself think the words. He left Command, found his car, drove until he had lost his tail, and then made his way as quickly to the doctor’s home as he could without getting pulled over. He swallowed hard as he made his way to the front door.

He knocked. A few moments later, Dr. Knox opened the door. He stepped aside. “Come in, son.”

Roy wandered in as if through a dream. Dr. Knox let him go down the stairs on his own. The bookshelf and false wall moved aside quickly from practice.

And there, sitting upright in the hospital bed, green eyes open wide, glasses perched precariously on his nose -

Maes Hughes grinned. In a faint voice, raspy with disuse, he asked, “Did I... miss the wedding?”

And that broke Roy.

He was not embarrassed by the tears that started rolling down his cheeks. Once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop, and he stomped over to Hughes like he intended to punch him but only dragged him up into a bear hug. Hughes made a sound of discomfort at being jostled, but he very weakly patted Roy on his hip, the highest he could seem to move his arm.

Roy’s voice was choked. “I hate you, you son of a bitch.”

“I know.”

Roy pulled back, sniffling and wiping at his face. Hughes looked him over, his eyes taking him in. His mind was still booting up, moving sluggishly, but he didn’t need to be a genius to notice -

“Roy, you look like shit.”

“It’s been a while,” Roy said.

“How is Elizia? Gracia?” Hughes asked. “Dr. Knox told me Gracia has been able to visit - some cover story about Knox being a small private practice doctor - and Elizia thinks I’m dead, you went and _buried me_ and _traumatized my daughter,_ you dramatic prick -” His eyes widened. His face, the olive-toned skin pale from months without sunlight, went even paler. “Roy. The government, the military, there’s something happening - it’s a, a giant transmutation circle, it goes back centuries, I sound insane but I’m not, there was a creature -”

“Hughes,” Roy interrupted, soothing. “Hughes. I know. We know everything.”

Hughes heaved in a deep breath. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

Hughes blinked. “Huh. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.”

“Fuck you.” A pause. “The Elric boys found it.”

Hughes sighed. “How did they take it?”

“Badly. They think you’re dead, too.”

Hughes exhaled softly. “Who knows I’m alive?”

“Gracia, the Lieutenant, and me,” Roy said. “And Dr. Knox. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Hughes inhaled in, out, like he was drawing up on his energy. “Okay, Roy. Tell me what happened, and what plan you have, and I’ll salvage what I can. And…” His eyes scanned the room. “Why am I surrounded by dead flowers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes:
> 
> \- huge thanks to netflixandfmab on tumblr for inspiration for that havoc scene. if it felt familiar, it's loosely based on this hysterical movie scene https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZ5kjjk-J4U.
> 
> \- the frequency fuery uses is 420.69 because he's like 20 and BABEY
> 
> \- me: they don't need to read your headcanons about olivier and rebecca/havoc
> 
> also me, wearing sunglasses and throwing monopoly money with my two wrists destroyed by carpal tunnel: deal with it!!!!!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!!! please feel free to hit me up on tumblr at @https://notantherwritingblog.tumblr.com/


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the promised day and its aftermath.
> 
> CW for canon character death.

**xxii.**

Riza managed not to pace a rut in the floor, but only just.

Instead, she soothed her fears by checking and double-checking her guns (two in her shoulder holsters, one on her hip, one strapped to her thigh, rifle slung over her back) and making sure her two knives were securely strapped to her ankles. She counted her ammo cartridges as if bullets were going to magically disappear. She wished she could have managed more than a few hours of sleep before slipping out under the cover of predawn darkness, but she was too jittery to relax. The thermos of coffee in her hands kept her occupied when she reasoned that if she kept fiddling with her guns, something would inevitably break.

She jumped every time the oil lamp beside her sputtered, but Hayate remained calm. Pride was not watching her, she was sure of it.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the long walkway. Riza put a hand to the gun holstered at the small of her back, bracing for the moment the figure came into view. She released a sigh of relief when the stocky form of Breda rounded a corner and stepped into the light.

“Were you followed?” Riza asked by way of greeting. Breda grinned lazily at her.

“Never,” he assured her. He stepped closer to her and folded his arms around her in a great bear hug. It was the first physical contact she had experienced in months. Riza stiffened in surprise for a moment before she relaxed and hugged Breda back. When he pulled away, he was eyeing her curiously.

“I count four weapons so far, which seems low. What are you carrying?”

“Seven” Riza assured him. 

“Nice. I’ve got my gun on me, but the rest of the arsenal is in the car,” Breda said with a grin. He squatted down and held out a hand to Hayate. “How you doing, little buddy?”

Hayate panted happily, contorting his head back as Breda scratched his chin. Then he stopped, his ears twitching. His head swiveled in the direction of the rest of the tunnel. With a soft yip, he wormed his way between Breda’s legs to leap out of their little ring of light.

“Hayate -” Riza started, but before she could do more, there was a familiar voice.

“Oh, _hello,_ Braha cutie, I’ve missed you, too!” Fuery appeared from around the corner, Hayate swaddled in his arms like an oversized baby. He went a little pink when he came face-to-face with Breda and Riza and shifted Hayate to salute them both. He stammered, “L-Lieutenants! Um, hello, it’s so good to see you -”

Riza studied Fuery. He had lost some weight, and it looked like he had grown taller in the past few months. Or maybe he was standing straighter. There was a new hardness in his eyes that spoke of the horrors he had seen in the trenches. There were bandages over his cheek and forehead, stubble on his chin, shadows under his eyes. His white jacket was dirty and tattered. She had known Fuery’s train-hopping was going to make getting to Central on time difficult, but she had not thought he would run himself this ragged before the Day even started. 

Before he could say more, Riza closed the distance between them and folded him and Hayate into her arms, holding him tightly. “I’m glad you’re here, Fuery.”

Fuery squeaked in surprise, but he returned Riza’s embrace with his free arm. “Me, too, Lieutenant.”

Riza pulled back. “We have a little bit more time before the Colonel gets here. Want to take a quick rest?”

Fuery nodded, his body sagging with relief. “Please. I’m a light sleeper now, I won’t be a mess if I just take a quick power nap.”

“Then get to it,” Breda said. Fuery put down his pack and leaned his head back against the wall. In about twenty seconds he was snoring softly. Hayate trotted over and curled up next to Fuery’s thigh.

“That’s adorable,” Breda observed. He glanced at Riza. “How are you feeling?”

Riza thought about that. Her stomach was still in knots, either from lack of sleep, too much caffeine on an empty stomach, or nerves. She was pretty sure it was all three. She kept running the plan over and over in her head, the steps and the places and the people. There was a nagging feeling like there was something she was forgetting, or some kind of gaping hole or contingency they had left unplanned, but she kept coming up blank. There was nothing more to do except wait for the Colonel and begin phase one.

“Yeah,” Breda agreed, as if he could sense Riza’s thought’s racing. “Me, too.”

She smiled weakly and held out her coffee canteen. “Want some?”

“Do you still drink that black sludge?”

“It’s not _sludge,_ it’s called _dark roast -”_

“Sluuuudge,” Breda sang. It echoed down the hallway, loud enough Hayate’s ears perked up and Fuery stirred. Riza glared at him and he held up his hands in surrender.

“Fine,” He conceded, “Not sludge. But unless you have some sugar around here, I’ll manage well enough.”

He settled down on a long-abandoned crate to wait. He peered up at her with concerned eyes. “How _have_ you been, Riza? I know you couldn’t say much in our letters, but I didn’t like what I read. I like what I heard even less.”

Riza bit back a smile. Everyone on the team (except the Colonel, obviously) was like a brother to her. Fulman older and more worldly, Havoc a fraternal twin and pain in the ass, Fuery the baby of the team. But Breda was sweet and supportive and protective, the ideal younger brother. But she didn’t have time to go into everything with him, so she simply answered, “I survived.”

“That’s what people say when they went through some real shit,” Breda said. He glanced back at Fuery, eyes cataloguing every change in his face the way Riza had. “He looks older. Tired.”

“Like he’s in his twenties, finally?” Riza said wryly. Breda chuckled. 

“Yeah. Puberty got him at last.” He seemed to hesitate before asking his next question. Changing the subject, he said, “How’s the Colonel?”

“Fine, as far as I know.” Which wasn’t much. “We haven’t spoken in months.”

“Really?” Breda wondered. “Wow. That had to be weird.”

“It took some getting used to,” Riza said carefully, unsure what Breda was insinuating. Seeming to gather that he was treading into uncertain waters, Breda held up his hands in a placating motion again.

“I’m not trying to pry. I just know you and the Colonel are really close. In some ways I imagine it was worse for you two, being so close here in Central but not able to communicate,” Breda said. “That must have made planning complicated.”

“Right,” Riza said, because of course that’s what Breda was talking about. They were friends who didn’t talk for a while and struggled to plan their military coup, not… “There are some minor updates we’ll need to communicate, but overall things will go smoothly.”

She checked her watch. Madame Christmas’s shop was destroyed five minutes ago, which meant the Colonel should be making his way to their location now. She glanced at the door, estimating that he should arrive in about ten more minutes. Her heart did an uncomfortable tumble in her chest.

Not only had she not spoken to the Colonel in months - she hadn’t even _seen_ him in weeks. As the Promised Day grew closer, Fuhrer Bradley worked more and more - though he claimed he was busy preparing for the North-East training exhibition and not preparing for an apocalypse, of course. And the Colonel was busy with his own work and preparations.

Her only note of warning was Hayate’s ears perking up as he heard something she and Breda didn’t. At the same time, the heavy wooden door swung open, and the Colonel stepped through.

Would it have been a cliché to say that all of her anxiety vanished when she laid eyes on him? Most likely. It also would have been a lie. But watching the Colonel walk through the door in a dress shirt and vest and tie, bangs pushed back from his eyes, giving as good as he got when Breda was a little smart-ass with him? Riza’s stomach started to settle just from being near him again.

It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “You made sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yes,” Riza said. There seemed to be something in her throat blocking her words. She swallowed, forced a smile to her lips. “And if I was, this little guy would have warned us.”

The Colonel _beamed_ , kneeling down to scratch just behind Hayate’s ears. “Good boy!” he praised cheerfully. “Keep your nose peeled, okay? We’re going to need you today.”

Riza couldn’t _breathe_. Under the façade, Roy looked exhausted, skin pallid and bags under his eyes. But he was _there,_ smiling and joking and petting her dog, and she had forgotten how much she loved his voice, its deep cadence, how much she loved his laugh, and she swallowed her tongue and threw up professionalism like a shield around her because if she didn’t get this under control she was going to fling herself at him and not let go. Which would make stopping the apocalypse difficult.

The Colonel was speaking with Fuery now, which gave Riza enough time to pull herself together. Those two didn’t see anything amiss, but she caught Breda’s eye and he raised a questioning eyebrow at her. Riza sent him a half-shrug and hoped he chalked up whatever he saw to nerves.

“What are the Bradleys’ status?” The Colonel asked her. It seemed he, too, was focused on the task at hand and maintaining that professional distance.

“The Fuhrer went to observe the training in the east. He took Selim with him,” Riza said, and she watched the cogs turning in his mind.

He frowned. “Then you haven’t heard the news. The Fuhrer’s train was destroyed, with him in it. No one has found his body, so for the time being he’s assumed missing. No one has seen Selim.”

Riza’s eyes went wide. The Fuhrer, attacked, missing, out of the picture - it was a stroke of serendipity so perfect she couldn’t have even planned it.

“I’ll be damned,” Breda said with a low whistle. “Grumman isn’t taking any chances.”

“But that will have ramifications for us,” Riza said grimly as her mind raced. “Security is going to be elevated. More patrols, more guards coming in. They might change the schedules, too, and the round routes.”

“What about our communication?” Fuery asked. “Have we been able to reach out to our Eastern command units? Do they know about this?”

The Colonel waited patiently for them all to finish. “All we know is that the Fuhrer is missing. This is either a once in a lifetime chance, or we’re walking into a trap.” He met Riza’s gaze, and she knew that they were both going in assuming it was both.

“We’re kind of damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Breda said. “We’ve deserted. Might as well open our can of worms and lay in it.”

“I don’t think that’s the phrase,” Fuery mumbled.

“Much more apt, though, I think,” Riza agreed with Breda. The Colonel’s lips twitched in a smirk. She felt his gaze run over her for several seconds, like he was drinking in the sight of her as much as she of him.

“Your orders, sir?” Riza prompted.

The Colonel studied the three of them. “Whatever action we may take, we’re heading straight for the battlefield. Whatever the outcome, there’s no turning back. Even if we win, this mission still won’t be close to completion, not until we rebuild this nation with me as the Fuhrer. We’ll still have the task of setting things right.”

Riza watched him speak, charismatic and passionate and earnest, and wondered how he really didn't know she would follow him to hell if he asked her. From the straightening of Breda’s spine, the lifting of Fuery’s chin, they were as galvanized as she.

_We’re heading straight for the battlefield._ It was like returning to old stomping grounds. They had been united in war together since they were children in Ishval, under the thumb of the state, and now out in the open in blatant defiance in a military coup. And still he made her want to be strong and brave and good. For him. For herself.

“In other words, I’m only giving you a single order to obey.” The Colonel took a deep breath, held it. Then he leveled them all with a glare that could stop a tsunami. _“Don’t die.”_

The order should have been ridiculous and simplistic. But something about its straightforward nature and the genuine entreaty to survive this day elevated it from mundane to inspiring. The single order settled her.

_Live,_ he was telling them all. _Survive this day and keep building with me. I can’t do it without all of you._

Even if it was as his adjutant or a work partner, Riza wanted to remain by his side.

As one, the three soldiers clicked their heels together. “Sir!”

The Colonel studied them each in turn. A grin unfurled across his lips. “Then let’s get moving.”

~

Phase One started in the country outskirts of Central. The thirty minute drive out was tense as Breda drove. Occasionally Fuery would ask a question to break the silence, a nervous habit the front hadn’t quite kicked (and somehow Riza was _so grateful_ for that she answered every single one). She wordlessly offered the Colonel some of her coffee and was secretly glad that things seemed normal enough between them that he accepted it and drank, even if she knew he hated black coffee. Breda smirked at her and Riza hoped it was because of the coffee thing and not anything else.

Frankly, Riza couldn’t wait to get this Day started, because at least then she might get a hold of herself and focus on her damn job. She always did so much better when her target was in front of her.

Breda found the spot Riza had marked on their maps and parked in the road. If the drivers saw the stalled car and got out to investigate or offer assistance, they could overpower them. If not, Riza would be there to stop the car with her gun. The latter would be quicker and more effective, but the former would be better to start with. They wanted the Madame Fuhrer as sympathetic to their cause as possible.

They settled into their positions. Under the trees' thick foliage, even the moon and limited starlight was blocked. She could feel the Colonel’s warmth beside her as she knelt behind the bushes. Were she to measure it, she could picture the perfect two inches of space between their bodies. The air crackled with static like she was reaching for a charged doorknob.

She felt his gaze on her profile. It was like fingers caressing her cheek, stroking through her hair, tracing down the curve of her spine. Heat pooled in her stomach and face, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Should she say something? Do something? This would likely be their only moment to spend alone, to breathe, until this was over. At the end of the day, they would either be successful, or they would be dead.

She turned toward him. She couldn’t see him, but she could picture him so clearly it might have been daylight. His round face, pale with weariness and lined with five o’clock shadow; his dark eyes, so different from hers, but always matching in warmth and respect; his dark hair, mussed and falling over his forehead.

His hand found hers where it sat on the ground between them. The warmth of his skin burned through the gloves like a brand. Heart in her throat, Riza turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his, holding on, holding tight. Was she imagining the hair - thinner, lighter than hers - brushing against her temples? Was she simply _wishing_ for his breath fanning across her cheeks, the phantom warmth of his mouth so close to hers? Riza felt her eyelashes flutter, lids growing heavy.

In the distance was the rumbling of an engine, rapidly growing closer. The noise snapped her back to herself.

“I missed you, sir,” she breathed like a revelation.

A pause the length of a heartbeat.

Then the Colonel spoke, just as soft, just as wistful. “I missed you, too.”

She ripped her hand from his and pulled the gun holstered on her thigh. She cocked it once and ran into the road.

**xxiii.**

Breda and Fuery took the lead; the Lieutenant stood in the middle, her arm securely wrapped around the Madame Fuhrer; Roy and Hayate covered from behind. The only sounds were their footsteps on the stairs, Hayate’s soft panting, and the Lieutenant’s comforting words to the Madame. They found the room they were looking for easily on the top floor of this abandoned building, glass windows facing west so snipers could not shoot them without burning their retinas, the rafters high and open for Mustang’s old crew to provide backup.

“What are we doing here?” the Madame Fuhrer asked. She looked around fearfully.

Roy exchanged glances with the Lieutenant. He lowered himself to the floor where the Madame was kneeling. “I’m going to tell you our plan, but know now you’re not going to like it. I will not force you to follow through with it. But I am asking you to trust us.”

Madame Fuhrer indeed _did not_ like that Roy’s plan was to gamble with all of their lives. The ruse was clear: they would pretend to have taken the Madame Fuhrer hostage, gun to her head, and see how the Central soldiers reacted. If they shot to kill the Madame Fuhrer, then they would know the extent of High Command’s orders. If not, perhaps the soldiers might still be reasoned with.

“This is insane,” the Madame Fuhrer cried. “You think they want to kill _me?”_

“I do,” Roy confirmed. “I hope I’m wrong. But we need to know. You have my word we will not let harm come to you. And again, I am not going to force you to help me.”

The Madame’s face tightened. “And if I don’t help?”

“Then you remain in our protective custody,” Roy said. “And we will see you safely to our next location. I don’t want to hurt you, Madame Fuhrer. I cannot say the same of these soldiers if they are allowed to take you.”

The Madame Fuhrer took a deep, shaky breath. “Who will be holding the gun?”

“The Lieutenant,” Roy said. He kept his gaze focused on the Madame, even though everyone could hear him when he said, “Her discipline and loyalty is unparalleled. There is no one I trust more to keep you safe besides myself.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” Breda said dryly from his position near the windows. “Madame Fuhrer, I don’t mean to rush you, but I count two squads moving into position, so I really recommend you make a choice now.”

“Two on the roof, one coming up the stairs,” Fuery relayed from his radio, where he was listening in on the military frequency. “They mean to box us in.”

The Madame Fuhrer took a deep breath. When she opened their eyes, they revealed a well-tended core of iron. Roy could understand why King Bradley would fall in love with this woman, even as a homunculus. “I’ll do it. If you’re right, I’ll do anything I can to help you. And then you will find my son.”

“I think that’s more than fair.”

The stairwell echoed with approaching footsteps. Roy and his team got into position, the Madame Fuhrer on the floor with her arms unbound and Riza leveling a safety-locked gun at the back of her head.

Here’s the thing: Roy knew he was smart, and knew he was probably right about the military not caring whether or not they killed anyone who stood in their way. But he took no pride in being _right._

The captain who found them gave the order to kill everyone but Mustang, but Mustang’s crew was quicker. Every Central soldier fell, taken out by well-aimed hits to hands and legs. Non-lethal shots they could recover from with no ill-effects but that hurt like a bitch in the moment. Which was _exactly_ what they were going for - containment and removal from the battle, not mass casualties.

The Madame Fuhrer looked up at him, green eyes wide and horrified that her own soldiers had been ordered to kill her, and she asked, “Has our country abandoned my husband? Or has my husband abandoned me?”

Roy hated that he did not have an answer for that. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I’ve given you my word that we will protect you, and we will follow through.”

The Madame Fuhrer nodded jerkily. “And I’ve given mine.”

She allowed the Lieutenant to pull her carefully to her feet. From the window, one of Mustang’s former army buddies alerted them to the approaching second wave of soldiers.

They had to fight their way out. It was loud and chaotic in the way that battles were - Roy’s snapping fingers harmonized with the shots from the Lieutenant’s guns and the screams from the street below. He sent out flash bangs and singed hair and made a lot of smoke and noise, but he was careful to throttle the flames. He doubted he left any more than some first-degree burns. Over his shoulder, the Lieutenant’s rifle was slung over her shoulder as she fired shot after shot. There was a calculating glint in her eye as her view of the world narrowed to just her scope.

But the battle ran longer than anticipated. Fuery reported their supply truck was caught in a roadblock that sprung up from the Fuhrer’s assassination attempt and their own actions. Their driver was using a secondary route now - they had planned for this - but bullets were running low. Roy clapped his army friend on the shoulder.

“Listen,” he started, “If this goes too long, leave without me. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Oh, naturally,” one man said.

“Can I leave now?” another asked.

Roy shot them both glares. “You could pretend to want to die by my side.”

“Sorry, Mustang, but I’m fighting to live, not die.”

“And if I’m dying, it’s with my wife. I’d think you wanted to go out with yours instead of my ugly old mug.”

Roy frowned but knew this was not the time to start arguing about the Lieutenant not being his wife. He snapped his fingers to send off a wave of incoming soldiers. His eyes scanned the streets, looking for their incoming supplies. The Lieutenant had assured him he wouldn’t miss it, so he assumed it was going to be a large truck of some kind. Something hijacked from one of the military depots?

His thoughts faded away at the incoming, high-pitched scream of an ice cream truck’s music. A truck labeled _Funny Bear Ice Cream!_ with a cartoon bear painted on the side barreled down the street, knocking soldiers and barricades aside like toys. The truck squealed to a stop and the horn honked twice. Loudly.

Roy’s mouth dropped open. _What the hell?_

The back door opened, and a familiar, dark-haired woman poked her head out. Her military camo utterly clashed with the wide grin on her face. She put her hands to her mouth as she bellowed, “YOO-HOO, RIZA!”

She threw a reload to the Lieutenant. The cartridge flew high in a perfect arc. The Lieutenant did not even pull her sight away from her gun as she caught the bullets in one hand and seamlessly, automatically reloaded her rifle. In another moment she had fired off a shot.

Roy’s mouth dropped open. _Holy shit, she’s gotten even better._

Without missing a beat, the Lieutenant called back, “It’s about time, Rebecca!”

“I know, I know,” Rebecca said as she hopped down from the truck. “Traffic was unbelievable.

It was the work of a few moments to loosen the catches and unveil the enormous stockpile of weapons piled into the ice cream truck. Roy’s mouth fell open a second time - guns, bullets, flash grenades, crates labeled in Xingese that he couldn’t read. The truck held enough firepower to turn the tide in this fight.

_Holy shit, we might win this,_ Roy realized. He tried not to look too flummoxed as the men around him cheered. It wouldn’t inspire much confidence if Roy revealed he hadn’t planned any of this part. He approached the truck after the others as the driver’s side door opened and a cloaked figure handed him a gun.

“It’s good to see you, Colonel,” they said. Roy blinked, confused at the familiar timbre and trying to place it. Smiling, the figure drew back her hood, and Roy found himself looking up into the wide blue eyes of 2nd. Lieutenant Maria Ross. “It’s been a while.”

“You - what - how?” Roy asked, his mouth working without producing a single cohesive thought. “What -?”

Maria Ross tilted her head, confused. “Wait, you didn’t know? The Lieutenant planned all of this. She made the plans, the route, smuggled me back into the country.”

Awestruck, Roy turned around to where the Lieutenant was laying on her stomach, covering Catalina and Fuery as they set up a small launcher of some kind. He had known that she was connecting with Breda and Fuery, knew that she was gathering intel of her own, but he had thought her constant surveillance would have prohibited her from doing more.

Clearly, he had forgotten one thing: Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye did not half-ass a damn thing in her life. If she was going to help him, she was going to go all the way. It was incredible how perfectly their plans aligned, bolstering each other and filling in the cracks, even when they weren’t able to communicate for months.

“I didn’t,” was all Roy said.

“She’s utterly wasted with you,” Rebecca Catalina declared, appearing from out of nowhere behind Roy and unceremoniously tossing her things into the truck. The rest of their group was running towards the truck for their planned getaway. Roy didn’t even bother to argue when the Lieutenant escorted the Madame Fuhrer into the truck and took her spot up front with Ross.

Breda sent Roy a smirk, agreeing, “She is.”

“I _know_ that,” Roy grumbled. “If we’re alive after today, I’m writing you up for insubordination.”

Breda laughed at him as he hopped into the back. The Lieutenant sent him a quick glance, quirking her brow, but she did not ask questions.

Ross drove them out of the city quickly. Roy wanted to speak with whoever had procured these Xingese weapons for them and they needed to rest and regroup, so Ross pulled off the road. Fuery tapped the phone line to get a signal and Ross dialed a number into Fuery’s portable phone-radio.

“Go ahead,” Ross said, handing the phone to Roy.

Roy spoke clearly and appreciatively, expecting some sort of Xingese royal or merchant or diplomat to come through the line. “This is Colonel Roy Mustang speaking. I’m honored to have your support. To whom -?”

The familiar chuckle almost bowled Roy over. Havoc’s cheerful country drawl oozed through the speaker. _“Who’s ass are you kissin’, Colonel? Let’s keep things casual for now. Thank you for calling Havoc’s General Store, proudly kickin’ after eighty years in business.”_

_“Jean Havoc?”_ Roy yelled. He was amazed and awed and delighted to hear his voice. To know he was alright and that he was still able to support them despite the distance and injury.

_“You know it,”_ Havoc said. _“And thanks for calling. You’ve wracked up quite a bill here, Colonel. Where am I sending it?”_

Roy grinned. This day was looking better with every development, every step of their plans proceeding exactly as planned. It was looking more and more possible and _probable_ that they might actually win today. And it was because of his team, of Havoc and Breda and Fuery and the Lieutenant.

“Send it to the office of the Fuhrer,” he said. They were making a beeline right for it.

Roy hung up the phone and restrained his whoop, even as he was grinning. Fuery was sitting in the truck, listening to the military chatter and helping Ross and Catalina determine which route to take back into the city. Breda was helping patch up some minor injuries. The Lieutenant was examining the remains of their stores, putting things to rights and making sure everything was assembled and ready-to-go at a moment’s notice. He stepped outside of the portion of the truck where she sat, one leg dangling, a gun propped on her knee. She was oiling it with a bit of cloth, and a dark streak of oil clung to her cheek.

“You did all of this, Lieutenant?” Roy asked, peering up at her.

“I did,” the Lieutenant confirmed. She glanced down at him. “This was too big a project for one person. So I did what I could.”

_Did what she could?_ She had _saved_ this whole operation. Roy let himself grin up at her, his awe at her brilliance leaking through. “You’re incredible, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant ducked her head over the gun. Her bangs swung like a curtain over her eyes, but he could see the fine red blush creeping up her cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”

Their plans hit another snag when they learned of the mess the Briggs soldiers were making of Central Command. Roy came up with the clever idea to change their ice cream truck to a meat truck, a move that Catalina proclaimed the cleverest thing he had done in years. It was easy to make their way back into town from there. Between Fuery’s connections, the Madame Fuhrer’s support, and his team, they were more than capable of overtaking the radio station. Meanwhile, Roy and the Lieutenant would break off on their own to sneak below Central Command and deal with the homunculi. Roy knew, somehow, that he would find Edward down there in the middle of the fight.

The more things changed, he supposed.

“This is where I leave you,” Roy said to the Madame Fuhrer. “Thank you for trusting us. These soldiers will keep you safe and help you tell the truth.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” Madame Fuhrer said. She smiled up at him, taking his hand and squeezing once. “Take care. Keep your Lieutenant safe.”

Roy smiled. “I will.”

~

Infiltrating the Third Laboratory went as smoothly as he dreamed. Security was laughably meager considering the rest of the chaos in the city, so Roy and the Lieutenant only needed one swing each to incapacitate and tie up the guards they came across. They followed the familiar path into the basement and from there into the interconnected tunnels under Central. Distantly, Roy could hear shouting and fighting. It seemed that whatever was happening down here was big enough and busy enough to rattle the floors.

“Now, I may be going out on a limb here,” Roy said, “But we _might_ have found Fullmetal.”

The Lieutenant rolled her eyes but cocked her gun as they found a familiar entryway as high as the ceiling. The slab of stone blocking the doorway was new. Frowning, Roy put a hand to the wall and studied it.

“Sir?” The Lieutenant asked.

“This was done hastily,” Roy observed, examining the imperfections and streaks in the stone. “And very recently.”

On the other side of the door the yelling grew louder. Above the din, Roy clearly heard Fullmetal yell something profane.

“I think his voice is deeper,” The Lieutenant observed. Roy choked back a laugh as he took a step back from the door.

“I can take this door out easily,” he said. He looked over at the Lieutenant, who was quickly readjusting her hair back into a tight bun. “I want to make a dramatic entrance. I’m going to blow down the door, and then you come in with your gun out.”

“My gun has been out since four o’clock this morning, sir,” the Lieutenant said with a long-suffering sigh. “Can we be dramatic later?”

“We could die any minute. I plan to be dramatic all day. If I’m taken out, I want my last words to be something memorable.”

The Lieutenant failed to hold back a resigned grin. “As you were, sir.”

“Insubordination,” Roy grumbled. He snapped his fingers, and a burst of flame pulverized the stone to dust. He stepped forward, fingers poised to snap. Over his shoulder, the Lieutenant, truly his favorite person in the whole world, lifted her gun and held it at the ready.

“Things always get messy when you’re around, Fullmetal,” Roy teased. He tried not to sound grateful to see the little brat alive and in one piece. “Maybe I could lend you a hand.”

“Colonel?” Edward asked, eyes going wide. He had grown, Roy observed immediately: he was taller, jaw sharper, more muscular. His hair was longer. But it was still braided back neatly, and he still wore that garish red coat, so he couldn’t have grown up that much in the four months since they last saw one another. Before he could say more, the creature that was attacking him swung, and Edward needed to keep swinging his spear lest he be killed.

Roy frowned, gauging the scene. He counted three chimeras - one covered in spikes, another in hair, a third hairless but _spitting_ everywhere. On the other side of the room, a familiar figure with red eyes and white hair was fighting with the power and training of a warrior monk.

“Holy shit,” Roy observed. “Is that Scar?”

He peered around the room, examining the familiar white walls. “This takes me back, Lieutenant,” he said. “Last time we were here you cried over me. It was nice to learn you cared so much. Wish I could see it more often.”

“Why?” the Lieutenant asked disdainfully. “The last thing on my mind is crying over you now. The water will make you useless.”

Roy shot her a baleful look. She smirked at him as she fired a round at one of the approaching creatures. They both froze, taken aback when the creature took the bullet but carried on like it was unaffected. They were unnerving to look at: white, skeletal dummies, with no features save for the single enormous eye in the center of their foreheads and gaping, lolling mouths.

_Hm,_ Roy mused. _Don’t like that._

“Save your witty banter for later,” Scar snapped at them from the middle of his throng. “Just fight them!”

“Don’t order me around!” Roy shouted back, rankled that Scar would tell him to do _anything_ when the last time they saw each other Scar had been ready to make his brain implode.

“He’s right,” the Lieutenant said grimly. “Edward, what do we know about these guys?”

“They can’t get outside!” Edward shouted back. “Lieutenant, don’t waste the ammunition on them! They don’t react to bullets!”

“Then what _do_ they react to?” the Lieutenant demanded. Roy thought for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers.

The conflagration swept across the room. Fat tongues of fire wound in thick ropes around the room, roasting the white creatures to ash. He made sure to leave significant space around all of their allies, including Scar. Which he had _so many questions_ about, but if Scar was on their side for the day, Roy wasn’t going to complain.

Silence fell over the room when the last of the flames died out. Edward stood in the center of the empty white space, his shoulders stiff. He looked stricken as he turned back to Roy with wide, horrified eyes.

“They were the enemy,” Roy said. He wanted to make it a comforting assurance, but he only sounded angry. “It had to be done.”

Edward opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say something rash, a high-pitched scream echoed in the ceiling above them. Furrowing his brow, Roy looked up. A moment later, the ceiling collapsed in, bringing a shower of metal and dust, a squealing little girl, and a figure with long dark hair wearing a crop top.

“What now?” the Lieutenant breathed next to him.

“Mei?” one of the chimeras called.

“Envy?!” Edward shouted.

“Fullmetal asshole?” Envy coughed, annoyed.

“Mr. Scar!” Mei Chang yelled. Roy’s eyes nearly fell out of his head as the petite princess sprinted over to the mass murderer.

Scar growled down at her. “What are you doing back here?” he demanded. “Why is that damn thing back in his body?”

Mei stared up at Scar. Her dark eyes were wide and huge in her face. She was covered in dust, her fine, pink kimono dirty and torn. She dabbed at her eyes with her chubby child fists.

“I - I thought -” she sobbed. I’m s-sorry. I wanted t-t-to help.”

Scar stared down at the crying little girl, horrified. It would have been funny had the situation not been so dire. Warily, like Mei might bite off his hand, Scar reached forward and tapped Mei twice on top of her head. His broad palm covered her entire scalp.

“There, there,” he said gruffly. “You are...a child. Returning was a foolish risk to yourself and your nation. But your desire to help is...admirable.”

Roy exchanged a look with the Lieutenant. She looked as bemused as he when she mouthed, _What?_

Envy broke the standoff by blowing a loud, wet raspberry into his elbow. “You humans are all the same. You’re so _whiny_ and annoying. Makes me sick.”

He looked around the room and let out a low whistle. “Damn, you really made a mess down here. Let me see…” he started pointing them out like he was making a kickball team. “Fullmetal Alchemist, Flame Alchemist, _and_ Scar? _And_ you chimera assholes?” He lifted his arms over his head. Joints cracked from shoulders to wrists. Envy grinned at them all and the expression was feral. “So. Who gets to die first?”

Roy studied the homunculus. “You’re Envy? The shapeshifter?”

Envy grinned and spread his arms wide in a showman’s bow. “At your service. I’m flattered you’ve heard of me.” He glanced at Scar. “You’re working with the Flame Alchemist, Scar? You _do_ know he’s responsible for reducing Ishval to a hell on earth?”

“I am aware of that,” Scar said with the same tone as _don’t fucking remind me._

“Huh,” Envy said casually. “From enemies to friends. What _happened_ to you two? I have so many dear memories of Scar trying to blow your head up from the inside. You so clearly hate and want to kill one another, so why not do it?”

“We have other matters to attend to,” Roy said coldly. “We won’t be your pawns anymore.”

“Really?” Envy asked. He tilted his head to stretch his neck. A sick cracking sound reverberated in the room. “I’m not sure about that. I’ve been alive for a long time. You humans are easier to manipulate than you like to believe. You’d know that, eh, Colonel Mustang? Your entire career is built on manipulating people.”

Roy grit his teeth and tried not to let the words rankle. He certainly wondered that some nights when and where he crossed the line between carefully navigating events and fell into blatant manipulations.

But Havoc’s words came back to him now: _“We don’t follow you and care about you and support you in spite of it. We do because of it. Because you’ve been in the filth with the rest of us and you want to make this place a bit better. Because you’re working for it.”_ He thought of Fulman’s constant line of information from Briggs, Breda’s steady support, Fuery’s hardworking, go-getter nature. The Lieutenant, who supported him through thick and thin, who refused to let him do any less than his best.

If he didn’t trust himself, he trusted her. But increasingly, he found he _did_ have faith in himself, in his decisions.

“Besides,” Envy said, shrugging. “I’ve got a leg up on you all. Shapeshifting is…” he clicked his tongue and made an “ok” sign with his hand. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

His form flickered, shifting like colors in a kaleidoscope. In just a few moments he became a picture-perfect Maria Ross. “Huh?” Envy asked, spinning on his heels. Maria Ross’s voice was perfect down to the western accent. “Too bad Hughes saw through this one. Her mole is on the _left_ side, in case you ever want to fake her identity now that she’s dead. That was pretty fucked up, Colonel.”

Roy grimaced. The words cut deep, but they also meant that his team had fooled the homunculi on this. They had no idea Maria Ross was alive, let alone that she was back in the city defying them.

Envy frowned when Roy failed to give the reaction he wanted. “Unimpressed? Cold-blooded. How about this? Did you ever wonder what Hughes saw in his last moments?”

His form flickered again, the hair growing longer and lighter, the eyes morphing from blue to green. Roy’s mouth fell open as Maria Ross became Gracia Hughes.

_So this is how you beat him,_ Roy thought. _Hughes would never attack his wife._ Just that moment of shock and hesitation would open Hughes to the attack. That explained the eons of horrified silence on the other end of the line before the gun went off.

Over his growing revulsion, Roy also chalked this up as a victory. His team had pulled the wool over Father’s eyes on this, as well. They had no idea that Hughes had been alive the past year, laying in Dr. Knox’s basement three miles away.

_“Still_ nothing?” Envy asked. He looked over Roy’s shoulder to the Lieutenant. “He’s really a sick bastard, huh?”

“Leave her out of this,” Roy snapped. Envy’s eyes flickered between the two of them. His eyes went cold and fanatic.

“Oh, _right,”_ Envy purred. He licked his lips like he was savoring the last morsels of a delicious meal. “The Flame Alchemist and the Hawk’s Eye kickstarted their famous partnership in Ishval. I’m gonna let you in on a secret, mmkay? And it’s gonna blow your puny human minds.”

His form flickered again. He grew taller, broader, putting on muscle. His hair was short, his eyes blue. He wore an Amestrian military uniform.

This man was vaguely familiar. Roy wracked his brain, trying to place him. Had he worked with him? No, his social and work circles were quite small and insular. He did not resemble any superior officers Roy had worked with. Was he a wanted criminal, like MacDougal?

The Lieutenant suddenly gasped in a sharp breath. Roy turned to her and saw the way her eyes had widened. Her face was paler than paper, than marble. She looked like the blood had been abruptly drained from her body. Her hands trembled on her gun. Her mouth worked, shaping words she could not produce volume to express. Finally, she choked, her voice small and terrible, _“No.”_

_“You,”_ Scar snarled. The arm tattooed with destruction alchemy arm went stiff, the fist curling so hard his knuckles cracked. He stepped forward, putting an arm in front of Mei as if to bar Envy’s line of sight.

The floor fell out from under Roy’s feet as the pieces connected. He had seen this man before - on posters, on the front page of newspapers. He had heard his voice everywhere he went for the first two years of his military career. He remembered the day he first saw his face: he had been sitting at the Hawkeye breakfast table, half-asleep over a cup of coffee as a young Riza lay down the morning paper.

_“There_ it is!” Envy screamed. He cackled loudly, gleefully, like a child at a birthday party. “You have no idea how _good_ that felt! I ravaged their entire country with a single bullet! I mean, talk about invigorating!

“Oh, and the best part?” Envy asked. His grin was unhinged, his eyes manic. “The officer I pretended to be? He was always a moderate who publicly opposed the military's occupation of Ishval. And listen to this! The poor fool couldn't come up with a plausible defense at the court-martial! So he faced the firing squad, and then your ugly little country razed Ishval to the ground anyway!”

Envy let out a long sigh, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “You know, I don't think I'll ever get over how easy to manipulate humans are.”

Roy blinked. Once, twice.

On the third, he was back in the sand dunes of Ishval. The sun was blazing down on him, scalding his skin through the heavy weight of his military jacket, burning his nose and cheeks red and peeling. His ears echoed with explosions, gunshots, meaningless accolades and platitudes and praises, the screams of the families he burned alive. His throat ached, raw and dry from screaming and sobbing and smoke. He saw the miles and miles of ruined cities. He saw Hughes’s weary, strained face, Armstrong’s tears; he heard Kimblee’s laugh, drunk on the power of his philosopher’s stone.

He saw the Lieutenant dwarfed in her military blues, rifle slung over her shoulder. Her amber eyes cold and distant and heartless. He felt her skin heating and bubbling under his hand, heard her scream and sob and beg him to remove her father’s cursed alchemy from her skin. He heard her _thank him_ for lifting that burden from her shoulders. He saw her feverish and curled on her side, back wrapped in bandages and whispering _I want to do good._

Something deep in Roy’s mind snapped, and his world went black and red.

**xxiv.**

There was a monster in front of her, and it was wearing Roy Mustang’s face.

It was not the same monster from bare minutes ago, when Riza heard unknown footsteps coming towards her hiding place in the long, twisting cellar under Command. She had cocked her gun and aimed and pointed it at something that _looked_ like the Colonel and _spoke_ like the Colonel, but Riza knew immediately that this was not Roy Mustang. 

Envy wearing Roy’s skin was as comically wrong and out-of-place as a child playing dress-up in their parent’s clothes.

She aimed her gun at the back of Envy’s head. She knew she could not kill him on her own, but she could whittle him down about eighty lives, if she used up all of her ammunition on him.

To his credit, Envy did well nailing the Colonel’s disdain, although the real Colonel would never use that tone with her in a million years. Raising his hands, he had demanded, “What do you think you’re doing, Lieutenant?”

Riza knew he couldn’t see her, but she let her lips curve into a cold smile anyway. “When we’re alone, the Colonel calls me Riza.”

A pause.

“Mother _fucker,_ you _are_ together -!”

“I lied,” Riza said coldly, “But thanks for falling for it.”

She emptied the clip before Envy had even returned to his humanoid form. (Okay - maybe there was something a _little_ satisfying about shooting what was essentially a life-sized dummy of the Colonel. She would never _actually_ shoot him, but this was a little cathartic.)

Riza made it through three guns’ worth of bullets before Envy, crackling with red electricity, snarled and lashed out with a green arm. It wound tightly around Riza’s middle, constricting her arms and throwing her bodily to the floor. Her breath left her body in a rush and she heard a terrible, audible _crack._ She braced for pain, but outside the lump in her head and the probable concussion from the impact, it was her hair clip that had actually taken the brunt of the force. The clasp snapped and ricocheted into pieces along the floor.

Before she could even react, Envy was engulfed in a rush of flame.

Which brought her to this moment. _This moment._ Envy reduced to a pathetic, helpless little leech, crushed below the Colonel’s military-issued boots. His body was strung so tight with tension, jaw to feet, that she feared he might snap in body as well as mind. His eyes had narrowed to slits, pupils constricted in rage. And his _voice…_

He sounded cold, cruel. Like he could crush Envy beneath his boot and only mourn the mess. He sounded like Bradley.

And Riza Hawkeye, her father’s daughter, drew her gun and turned off the safety. With the hands of a killer, she aimed it at the Colonel’s head. The cold metal of the pistol’s barrel almost touched the skin of his temple.

She was a sniper. Her hands did not shake. Her breath did not stutter. But her heart - oh, her heart was breaking in her chest.

“What are you doing, Lieutenant?” the Colonel demanded.

“That’s _enough,”_ Riza ordered. “You’ve won. You’ve defeated him. It’s done. I will take him from here.”

“It’s _done?”_ The Colonel snarled. “Is Hughes back with his family? Has Havoc leapt from his wheelchair? Is our country a democracy? Has Ishval been rebuilt?” Riza did not flinch at his questions, cold and callous, but she wanted to. His lip curled. “It’s not. So our work is not finished.”

He pressed down with his boot. Envy squealed, high and reedy, like a bird clutched in a fist. “Lower your weapon, Lieutenant.”

“I can’t obey that order.” How many times had she thrown those words at him? Teasing, jovial, stubborn - _I cannot obey that order. I will not leave you to the vultures, I will not abandon you to danger. I will protect you from everything in this world that would hurt you, including yourself. Especially yourself._

The Colonel’s fingers twitched, sparks alighting on his fingers. “I _won’t ask again_. That is an order. _Lower your weapon.”_

For the first time - even for just a moment, stretching into infinity but also there and gone again - Riza feared the Colonel. For the first time, she almost questioned whether he would hurt her. The doubt only solidified her resolve.

“I won’t.”

Their standoff was interrupted by a burst of alchemy on their other side. Riza wanted to curse herself for narrowing her focus to only the Colonel, but it was only Edward. He sent a shockwave of alchemy through the floor, throwing the Colonel off-balance and flinging Envy pitifully through the air head-over-feet. Edward caught him in his metal hand.

Roy considered Edward for a few moments. “Fullmetal,” he observed. He held out a hand. “Give me that.”

Edward clenched Envy just a bit tighter, pulling him into his chest to half-cradle protectively. “No.”

“You heard what that thing did,” the Colonel hissed. “It started the war. A generation traumatized, obliterated. An entire people exterminated like bugs. A culture eradicated. That creature deserves the same fate. Give it to me.”

“I won’t,” Edward said. “If you want him, you’ll need to take him from me.”

“You little _shit.”_ The Colonel stepped forward as if to do just that, and Riza followed right behind. Her barrel pressing into Roy’s temple quickly became his more immediate concern. He stopped moving, but he still spat at Edward, “This does not concern you, Fullmetal.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Edward snapped. “You think I want to protect this gross leech? You think I don’t agree with you? I do!” He pointed at the Colonel. “But I’m not getting rid of one bastard Fuhrer to put another in his place. Look at yourself, Colonel! Do you want to look at your country with that face? Do you think they’ll follow you like this?”

“I, too, wish to see this creature destroyed in the most painful of ways,” Scar agreed. Before Edward could yell at him for not being helpful, Scar continued, “But I shudder to think what a man held captive by his own hatred will do to this country.”

Mei said nothing, but she was half-tucked behind Scar’s leg. Riza noticed that for all of his irritation with her, Scar still kept an arm shielded protectively in front of the little girl the same way he had with Envy. She looked petrified as she stared at the Colonel with her wide, wide eyes. Like he would roast her alive if she moved or breathed too loudly.

That sight - another child in a war she never asked to be in, a child cowering in fear of the Flame Alchemist - made Riza speak again.

“I can’t let you kill him,” Riza said. “I will destroy him myself. Or allow Scar to do it.”

“But this _thing -”_

“I know!” Riza yelled. Her voice cracked. “Scar was there! _I_ was there! Do you think I’ve forgotten? Do you think I don’t ache and rage and burn and _bleed_ from the guilt, too? But this isn’t the way to make things right. Isn’t this what we’ve been working towards? What we’ve been healing for?”

She inhaled, breath shaky. She needed to get herself back under control. “But you are about to do something reckless. Something _wrong._ I swore to protect you the day I agreed to work with you. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m pointing a gun at your head.” Damn it, _damn it,_ her hand was starting to shake and her voice crack and she needed to be _stronger than this._ Every breath was agony when she said, “This is pure hatred, and I will not let it take you.”

_You will not,_ Riza vowed. She spoke it to the universe. She would spit in God’s face if They came down to try and argue with her.

_You will not have him. You cannot take him. You will not take the man I love._

And of course, _of course_ that’s the moment she knew what this was. That she gave in and stopped denying and pretending. Riza Hawkeye loved Roy Mustang with every fiber of her being, with everything that she was, and that knowledge settled over her like a blanket and yet changed _nothing_ because she had loved him for _years._ It was as if she had been looking at all of her memories through a filter, and now with the haze gone she can see the sharpness of the lines and brilliance of the colors and she loved him, she loved him, _she loved him._

And what a cruel joke it was, to learn she loved him like this. To watch the hurt and anger and fear and stress boil over, puppeteering the man she loved and twisting him into something cruel and unrecognizable. His voice echoed to her from across the years -

_“Sometimes I fear I’ll be stained forever by the things I’ve done. I fear that I’m just a monster, or a rabid dog who needs to be put down. And if it comes to that, I wanted that person to be you. You’re the one I trusted not to sway to politics or outside pressures. You would listen to your conscience.”_

He had known this monster sat inside him, tethered by his innate goodness and need to repent and make amends. Riza would never sway to politics, never bow to other people’s pressures. She would forever remain ruthlessly pragmatic and realistic.

But she wanted to bow to this, to her heart and soul screaming at the idea of a world without him.

But she loved him. She _loved_ him. She loved him enough to save him from himself. She loved him enough to pull the trigger.

“You’re better than this,” Riza whispered. “You are more than this. You’ve worked so hard for so long. Don’t throw it away now.”

Their dreams, their hopes, their goals. His healing. The way his eyes lit up his face when he laughed and his smile brightened a room. If she allowed him to go through with this, Riza knew she would never see them again.

The Colonel sighed, the motion leaving his shoulders trembling. His hand lowered, even if his fingers remained tensed to snap and his back was stiff as a board.

“If you’re going to shoot me,” he said, voice husky from yelling and barely-contained wrath, “Then shoot me. But what will you do when I’m gone, Lieutenant?”

Riza huffed out a soft laugh. There was no cheer to it. “Do you think we can win this without you? That I can?” Riza had no doubt that they would lose this fight without Roy Mustang. “I’ll be dead by sunset.”

They were silent for a long moment. Then -

_“DAMMIT!”_

\- The Colonel snapped. Riza did not flinch, much as she wanted to. Every muscle in her body tensed as he flung his arm to the side, throwing his flame harmlessly down the long, empty walkway. Riza smelled the ozone and smoke and felt the heat on her profile as if from a vast distance. The Colonel kept his gaze locked on the ground.

“That can’t happen,” he said softly. His shoulders went slack and curled, his posture defeated. “I can’t afford to lose you. The world can’t afford that.”

With shaking hands, he tugged at the fingers of his gloves, peeling them off his sweaty palms. Riza could not see his face as he stared down at the red embroidery.

“What madness is this?” He wondered. “Scolded by a child. Lectured by my enemy.” He swallowed and slowly turned towards Riza. “And you.”

Riza swallowed the tears that clogged her throat and made it impossible to breathe. Fear and relief warred in equal measure as he faced her, expression open and haunted and ashamed. He seemed afraid to look her in the eye. “I’ve hurt you. Again. What an arrogant, blind fool I am.”

Slowly, so as not to startle her, he reached for her hand. His fingers were so gentle as they curved over hers, carefully lowering the gun. He kept his gaze on the barrel that was levied at his chest, rather than his head, like he was waiting for her to shoot him anyway. His voice cracked when he said, “Please forgive me.”

Like a puppet with its strings cut, he faltered to his knees in front of her, overcome with emotion. Riza was too spent to stay standing and collapsed across from him. The Colonel was looking at his hands with revulsion.

“Colonel,” she breathed. She wanted to reach for him, wipe his tears away, smooth his hair, yell at him for scaring her like and and for almost cracking and thank him for not making her have to hurt him. But Edward and Envy and Scar and Mei were watching on, awkward and silent as they watched these two war criminals fall apart. Riza hadn’t felt this hollow in years.

“I’m sorry,” the Colonel repeated. “Lieutenant, I’m so -” He gulped. “I’m _so sorry.”_ He looked up at her and his eyes went wide. “Lieutenant, you’re bleeding.”

Confused, Riza looked down at herself. There was indeed blood staining the left shoulder of her jacket. She reached up to probe at the area and flinched when she found the deep cut into the muscle on her neck. She was lucky it missed anything major. The Colonel reached for her as well before abruptly pulling his hand back, like he was afraid to touch her. Like he would dirty her, or like he had lost that right to offer comfort. Like he doubted he could ever provide it again.

_I love you,_ Riza thought, stricken. She wanted to reach for him but restrained herself. _I love you and I almost lost you._

Envy’s grating, high-pitched voice shattered their moment. His feeble attempts to spark further discord fell on deaf ears. Roy seemed to curl in on himself as he heard his vitriol spat back in his face. When Envy killed himself in front of them all minutes later, the Colonel only looked defeated. He peered at Riza with empty eyes.

Riza rose to her feet. “We need to keep going,” she said softly. She held out a hand to help him to his feet. “Let’s finish this, sir.”

**xxv.**

_We need to keep going. Let’s finish this._

The Lieutenant's words were the only things that kept Roy moving, placing one foot over the other as he and Edward led their group down the halls. He was half torn between rage and anguish with himself for hurting her, for nearly pushing her to the point she was forced to make good on her promise to shoot him if he ever went too far. The other half of him was in awe of her - the strength in her ideals, her convictions, her goodness, her determination to cut through his raging, wallowing bullshit and drag him off the road to hell by the ear.

_I really would be lost without her,_ Roy thought as Edward started picking a fight, which Roy thought showed a special lack of self-regard considering Roy ought to be “halfway to psychotown” around now. He didn’t like how right Edward was when he said so.

But now was not the time to self-flagellate or soul-search. They were going deeper and deeper underground, the floor slanting and the halls growing danker and darker. Water dripped from the pipes to settle in murky puddles. The stale air smelled like mildew. And it was silent. Roy didn’t even hear the skittering of rats.

They arrived in a dark, circular room. Roy stopped short when he caught sight of the grizzled old man who blocked their path. He leered at them all with a golden-toothed smile and introduced himself as the man who had created Fuhrer King Bradley.

“So you’re with _them,”_ Roy said. He pulled his gloves back over his wrists. He felt the Lieutenant draw and cock her guns at his side.

“I am,” the scientist confirmed. His grin widened into something maniacal. “I was worried you were at the radio station with the others. You won’t believe how much trouble you’ve just saved me, Colonel Mustang. Boys, take the rest out.”

He raised a hand, and a dozen men fell from the ceiling to land with nary a sound. They all wore identical outfits - white shirts and blue military pants, and they all held swords. As one, they threw themselves into action with a smooth seamlessness that spoke of decades of practice.

Roy felt the Lieutenant's back pressing against his, guarding each others’ flank as they sized up the situation. “More dummies?”

“They’re too quick,” Scar grunted to his right, where he was flinging punches. “These are humans.”

“These were the leftover candidates after we created King Bradley,” the scientist shared casually, as if this were an interesting piece of trivia. Roy felt the Lieutenant’s long hair flick against his cheek as she turned to follow the men’s movement.

The room fell into chaos as the five of them - Edward, Scar, Mei, Roy, the Lieutenant - fell into battle. In the corner of his eye Roy saw the red flutter of Edward’s coat. He heard Scar’s grunts as he swung his fists. They mingled with the near-silent, feather-like footsteps of Mei as she ducked and weaved around opponents three times her size. One of the men reached to snatch at Mei’s trailing braids and Roy caught him by the back of his collar and threw him to the ground.

The Bradley backups were moving too quickly and the room was too small for Roy to safely use his alchemy. He threw punches and elbows, mind filling with distant memories of street fights with boys who thought they could bother his sisters. His ears echoed with the rattling shots from the Lieutenant’s guns. She stood like a sentinel in the madness of the room, her feet planted and shoulders squared like the proverbial immovable object or eye of a hurricane.

Someone snatched at Roy’s throat, and he felt blood spurt over the back of his head when he whipped his head back to break the chokehold. He needed to get a grip on himself.

He stumbled, almost losing his balance, only to find solid strength aligning with the plane of his back and keeping him upright. He whirled, fingers at the ready, only to come face-to-face with the Lieutenant. He grinned rakishly at her.

She didn’t smile back. The guns in her hands went off, and Roy blinked, wondering if she had decided to shoot him for his trouble after all. But no pain came, and he glanced behind him. One of the Bradley dummies was just behind him, sword raised to swing. Four bullet holes stared back at Roy, and the man slumped in defeat. Blood started to pool on the floor.

“Nice one,” Roy said.

“Will you stop leaving your back open?” the Lieutenant snapped.

“I gotta give you something to do, yeah?” Roy asked, panting. One of the Bradley backups came at him, and he knocked him back with a suckerpunch to the face.

“I need -” the Lieutenant huffed, imperiously tossing her hair out of her face like they weren’t in battle. Blood spattered in a fine mist over her cheek, and she looked beautiful and deadly and dangerous as she surveyed the battlefield. “- a _god-damned_ vacation.”

“Done,” Roy agreed. He swung another punch.

“And a promotion,” the Lieutenant added. One of the Bradleys flung himself at her. She twisted, using her body and his momentum to flip him onto his back. Roy sank down to land a fist to the man’s nose.

“How high? I think there will be some openings after today.”

“And a drink.” They had a moment to breathe. The Lieutenant used a gunpowder-stained hand to shove her sweaty hair off of her face.

“Only if I’m buying,” Roy said, because this was a stupid time to flirt but she looked so beautiful and sexy standing there, covered in blood and gunpowder and looking at him like she was considering shooting him next.

“I think that’s the least you can do after this, Colonel,” she deadpanned. Then she smiled, once, bold and brilliant and she was the brightest thing down here. She was the brightest spot of light and color in his life.

Their moment of levity was halted by a flash of blue light. As one they turned toward it and watched, frozen and horrified, as a massive eye opened in the floor under Edward’s feet. Tiny hands reached from inky blackness and dragged Edward into their depths. It happened so quickly that by the time Roy realized what was happening it was over.

He felt like his stomach had just dropped to the floor. _“FULLMETAL!”_

The Lieutenant's gun went off, rounds echoing until her gun jammed from her pulling the trigger too hard. One of the Bradleys threw her forcefully to the ground, her head cracking against the stone floor and putting his forearm to her throat.

_No,_ Roy thought, _no, you can’t, you won’t hurt her -_ “Let her _go -”_

His moment of distraction cost him. A sword swung, shredded his glove. In the next moment he was on his knees, arms pinned uncomfortably above his head as he was held down. Moments later both Scar and Mei were subdued. Scar had three swords scissored around his throat, and Mei was in the clutches of one of the men, standing on the very tips of her toes as her headlock left her nearly dangling off the ground. Already her face was red from the exertion.

The lead scientist was clapping from his position in the middle of the room. He remained standing above the transmutation circle he was working on when they first entered. He grinned again in that unhinged way of his. “Good! Very, very good, Mustang. You truly are a worthy candidate for sacrifice. Now, we are running dangerously low on time, so I need you to…” he tapped a finger against his wrist. “Chop, chop! Perform human transmutation, and open the gate.”

Roy blinked, staring at the scientist. That’s what this was about? That’s how one became a sacrifice? Father and his people needed him to break alchemy’s greatest rule, violate its one taboo. Everything came back to the ultimate sin of playing god: human transmutation.

And this scientist thought he would just... _do it?_

“I won’t,” Roy snarled. “The Elrics proved it’s impossible. Why would I even try?”

The scientist tilted his head, considering.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Dear, oh dear. I appear to have not made myself clear. I am not asking. I am telling you. _Open the gate.”_

“Go to hell,” Roy spat. He literally spat some of his blood on the floor just to make a point of it. Maybe Fullmetal was rubbing off on him after all.

The doctor sighed. In, out. In a truly mournful tone, he said, “I didn’t want it to come to this. But I suppose, if you won’t do it on your own…”

Dimly, distantly, in some far-off corner of his brain that was still partly functioning, Roy knew it was impossible to stop time.

Like human transmutation - if not quite as taboo - it was a secret that the rules of nature, of science, of the universe, of God, of _whatever_ , did not allow mortals to touch.

But that dry, academic rationality was in some far-off corner of his mind, because for a span of what had to be mere moments (but what felt like days, years, decades), the world, the universe, time - it _froze._

First, the doctor spoke: “We have run out of time.”

Second, the sound: soft and yet _shockingly_ loud in the silent room. Like water spraying, only thicker, the sound heavier as liquid met stone.

Third, Roy prepared for pain to blossom somewhere on his body - his back, chest, stomach, head (not his hands, they needed his hands in working order, but damn everything else). But no pain came. He realized that the sound came from someplace to his right, and he turned his head to look, skin and bones and tendons moving as if through cement - to Lieutenant Hawkeye.

Fourth, he saw the entire cycle of emotions pass over her face, and they were truly in some shit now, weren’t they, if he was looking at her and her face said everything words couldn’t.

Surprise. Pain. Fear. Acceptance. Blood started to gush from her neck, down her shirt, staining her hair.

Fifth, with a horrific, wet gulping sound, she slumped to the floor.

And then time started up again.

As if through water, through the ringing in his own ears, he heard himself screaming. Had he truly been enraged with Envy before? That was nothing, that paled in comparison to this _wrath,_ this all-consuming _rage_ at them for _daring_ to touch the Lieutenant, for treating her as a pawn when she was the strongest of either of them (of all of them), at time for keeping on and letting her blood pool on the floor, at himself for failing her, _again, again, he could never seem to stop hurting her, disappointing her, throwing her into harm’s way._

But under that wrath and rage and hatred - at the doctor, at the homunculi, at himself - was fear, churning cold and sickly in his stomach.

The deal was clear: perform human transmutation - break the ultimate taboo - and the doctor would save the Lieutenant. Don’t, or she would die, and Roy with her.

(And wasn’t it _hysterical,_ a sick cosmic joke, that he’d just had this talk with the Lieutenant not twenty minutes ago? That Roy realized that the world would be so much worse off without Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye in it? That they both confessed they didn’t want to do this without the other?

_This is pure hatred, and I will not let it take you. I know you’re better than that. Do you think we can win this without you? That I can?_

_That can’t happen. I can’t afford to lose you. The world can’t. Please, forgive me.)_

What had he been _doing_ these past ten years? Dancing around her and his feelings, talking forever to her and at her but never _saying anything,_ taking the moments she was at his side - warm, cheerful, stoic, breathing - for granted.

“I’m - not gonna die.”

Roy snapped back to himself. The Lieutenant was still conscious, if only barely, laying on her side, palm to her neck to staunch the bleeding. Hearing her speak, faint and raspy as it was, sent shockwaves of relief through him so strong he would have fallen to his knees if he weren’t already being held down.

The Lieutenant went on: “What you don’t know, doctor...is...is that I’m under strict orders not to die.”

The world slowed to a stop for a second time.

Roy froze, staring at her prone body, the blood soaking her shirt and the flagstones, sluggishly leaking through her hands. She met his gaze, amber eyes hardened, glowing like embers in the dim light. His right hand, his best friend, his better half, refusing to give in -

_I love you._

The knowledge rocketed through Roy’s head, his chest, flooding through his entire being. He knew it deeper than alchemy, to his core, to his soul. Everything he did and was and built was for her. He loved her, he _needed_ her, he couldn’t do this without her. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to do anything without her ever again.

She was speaking again. The doctor, too, he supposed, but Roy paid him no deference - it was only the fact that his hands were restrained that the doctor was still upright and alive, after all. She was looking at him like he was the only thing she could see as her vision tunneled. Like if she was going to die, she wanted him to be the last thing she saw.

The Lieutenant said, “Don’t sacrifice everything for my sake.”

The words knocked the wind out of him. She was laying there, bleeding out, dying, and she _still_ believed in him, in the world that they were trying to build? In freedom, democracy, honest government, peace; in him, Roy Mustang, standing at its head? As if Roy could do any of that, wouldn’t lose his way, wouldn’t know which path to take, wouldn’t know who to trust or how to trust ever again without her?

It was so simple and obvious that for a delirious moment of insanity, Roy felt like he was nineteen again, fingers brushing over the skin of her back, learning her father’s alchemy. A solution so plain it was a wonder, a testament to his idiocy that he hadn’t known it before.

His _everything_ was dying in front of him, begging him not to save her.

Roy knew, in his bones, that he would do this transmutation and damn himself if it meant she lived.

And he also knew that if he did, the Lieutenant would never forgive him.

So in the end, it was an easy choice.

Even if it ripped what was left of his blackened, shriveled little heart in half to do it.

He held her gaze, wondering if she could see in his face how clearly it was killing him to sit here, to do as she asked (he used to joke about it, when she made him do his job, _“you’re killing me, Hawkeye!”_ and now he wondered if he could ever laugh again after today.)

The Lieutenant watched him steadily, her eyes hard, expression set. Her gaze flicked up overhead. It was the same direction that the Bradley dummies had come through.

And finally, _finally,_ Roy understood the message she was trying to convey. Because of course she still had the presence of mind to form a plan and communicate in code, even with blood pouring from her throat.

“Alright, Lieutenant,” He heard himself say. “I won’t do the transmutation.”

And then the fighting started. (Well, after the requisite shock and shit-talking, Roy’s mask sliding into place, and for once he was grateful for that robotic response, because if asked to relay or repeat what he said he couldn’t have). And with the distraction, with the tension broken (why did it even matter, Roy wanted to ask? It had happened, the worst-case scenario had already happened). All he knew was he was on his knees, then he was running, almost stomping on the philosopher’s stone in his haste because _damn it,_ and one of the Bradleys tried to fucking _jump in front of him, the bastard, the fool -_

_“Outofmyway!”_ Roy yelled, the words blurring unintelligibly, something ugly and feral in his voice that he didn’t recognize. In a snap, the man was blown away.

Then he was on his knees, pulling Lieutenant off of the floor and into his arms. She was ghostly pale, sweat beading over her forehead, and she was _cold,_ shaking, and Roy pressed his palm to her neck for a heartbeat. Her pulse thrummed under his fingers, blood still soaking out _(hasn’t it congealed by now,_ Roy wondered distantly, and then he realized it hadn’t yet, because the last hundred years had really only been a minute or two at most).

Distantly, he heard yelling. There was fighting, because they were in a war and this was a battle. But Roy, the Colonel, the chessmaster, the Hero of Ishval, had completely lost his head, gently shaking the Lieutenant’s slack body and screaming her title loud and hard enough for his throat to tear.

Lieutenant - Private - Miss - Riza, _Riza, RizaRizaRizaRiza,_ was all Roy could think as his mind spun away into blind panic. He had no head for medicine, had only ever been any good at destruction. Drops of water fell over Riza’s face and he realized he was crying over her unresponsive body.

He had only kissed her _once?_ He had never held her hand, taken her to dinner, let her drag him through cinemas and bookstores and markets and coffee shops, made love to her until her knees were jelly? He had never told her that she was his best friend, the one who kept him good and sane and human and strong? He had never told her that everything he did, he did for her?

None of this was worth it without her. Roy would give up his military career, his dreams of becoming Fuhrer, his _alchemy,_ if it meant she lived. It wasn’t even a choice.

And suddenly, like a tiny little angel, Mei appeared, all high-pitched squeaky voice and braids and bloody kimono and she looked at them with eyes older, wiser, harder than her years _(another child, brought into war too early,_ Roy thought with something like grief, _Another failure to lay at your feet.)._

“I can save her,” she said, and she drew a transmutation circle with Riza’s blood (blood, blood, there was so much of it, the heady, sickly metallic scent was turning Roy’s head). Roy followed her instructions and laid her body down in the circle. His arms shuddered with horror at the loss of contact. His military jacket was stained all over from her blood.

There was a flash of lightning, and - nothing _changed,_ that Roy could see, but when Roy lifted Riza to his chest, cradling her in his arms, it was to see the bleeding had stopped and the line at her throat was closed. He crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair. She smelled of blood and gunpowder and lilacs. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and wondered at the warmth of her skin.

“Thank you, _thank you,_ I owe you one,” Roy said, because telling a ten year old _if I am blessed with a daughter I am going to name her after you_ is a weird thing to say.

And then Riza stirred, opening her eyes, and Roy was found.

_I love you,_ he thought, holding her close to him, the closest he had held her in months. _I love you, I love you, I am so so sorry, I love you._

“Colonel,” she breathed. Her lashes fluttered as though she were a princess waking in a fairy tale. She smiled in relief. “You got my message.”

“We’ve been together long enough,” Roy said. “Besides. If I had performed the transmutation, I was pretty sure you would shoot me first thing.”

“Second thing.” Riza smiled up at him, laying her head against his chest as if to listen to his heartbeat. Roy could have kissed her then and there had shit not then gotten terribly, horribly real all over again.

The last thing Roy saw before the Gate opened and darkness claimed him was Riza’s ashen, desolate face, tears rolling down her cheeks and blood coating her shirt and jacket. All he could think was, _at least she’s alive._

**xxvi.**

Riza felt fucking invincible.

In reality, she knew that what she was feeling right now was light-headed mania induced by the adrenaline and shock. The mind and body can only undergo so much physical, mental, and emotional stress before starting to crack. And for all of Riza’s considerable self-control and fortitude, nearly dying about eight times before two o’clock was a lot of stress. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept, or eaten, or even had water.

But she had been on the brink of death, the world gone soft and warm and hazy, and she made peace with it as she faded out in the warm cradle of her Colonel’s arms.

And then she had been brought back and forced to watch helplessly as Pride and Wrath forced him to open the gate. His roars of pain echoing with her screams would haunt her, she was sure, for the rest of her days (though considering how well things were going, that didn’t seem all that long in any case).

(And then, briefly, she fell unconscious. She supposed it was from the blood loss or the stress, but somehow, that didn’t sit quite right with her.)

Those twenty or so minutes between the transmutation and Izumi Curtis floating up from below were some of the longest and worst of Riza’s life. She had heard people talk about this period, this interminable stagnation of waiting for the other shoe to drop. _The not knowing is the worst,_ people would say. _Not knowing if your loved one is alive or dead, not knowing when you’ll know the answer, hoping for the best and dreading the worst and knowing that when you get the answer you may very well want to go back to not knowing._

When she saw that familiar mop of dark hair, Riza was not ashamed to admit that her knees gave out (she had lost _so much_ blood). The utter relief at seeing him upright, even if he was covered in blood, almost made her weep. She swallowed down the tears, knowing that if she started crying now she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Even with him kneeling in front of her, beautiful onyx eyes gone milky gray and sightless, just hearing his voice made her religious, because thank God, _thank God,_ the waiting was over and he was alive and he was here, with her.

Riza Hawkeye had known Roy Mustang for half of her life. They could communicate with a quirk of the mouth, a raised eyebrow, the flutter of a hand. It was comically easy to stand beside him on a battlefield, hand on his shoulder (warm, solid, strong; he was alive, alive, _alive),_ telling him exactly how to roast Father to a crisp.

The Colonel clapped his hands and snapped his fingers and the world lit up in red, orange, yellow, and the air smelled of ozone and smoke, and her hair flapped behind her in the wind like a war banner. It was hell and heaven all at once, because it may be the end of the world, but she was standing next to her partner and best friend fighting for it anyway. There was nowhere else she would rather be. No other way she would rather go out.

Except -

Except they _win._

It’s with a bang and a horrible, pitiful shriek from Father. Ed stood above the shattered remains of Al’s suit of armor with a sense of calm that Riza had never seen. He grinned down at Mei and lifted his hands - both flesh and bone and human, even if one was noticeably smaller and weaker than the other - and vanished in a flash of light.

Moments later, there was another flash, and a second boy was with him.

And Riza, strong and brilliant and stoic and powerful Riza, started to cry.

She wasn’t ashamed of it as she stole Roy’s coat and draped it over Alphonse Elric, keeping him warm and preserving his modesty. Roy was standing exactly where she had left him, though one hand was hovering over his eyes and rubbing them like he could force the sight back into them.

“Hey, hey,” Riza chided softly, catching his hand. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I can hear everything,” the Colonel breathed. “I can - feel the air? Does that make sense? The shock and the pain and the jubilation and the relief, did you know you could feel it? It’s like a vibration. That Mei girl might call it energy or ki.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s amazing. But I wish I could see it.”

His arm was warm and heavy over her shoulders. His body was strong and solid as she wrapped her arm around his waist. They held each other up as much then as they had for the past fifteen years.

“Lieutenant,” the Colonel said, “The Elric boys - do they have their bodies back?”

“They do, sir,” Riza said. Smoke and blood stung her eyes as she cried. Alphonse Elric returned to consciousness and the cheering started up again.

“What does it look like?” Roy asked softly. “The celebration.”

“It’s -” Riza swallowed. “It’s incredible. Though pretty much all of Central Command is decimated.” Roy chuckled softly next to her. “The Fort Briggs troops brought a damn tank through here, so about five walls are breached, at least that I can see from here. And I hear the Armstrongs took down Sloth, so you _know_ that section is just going to be condemned and rebuilt from scratch -” Roy groaned. “- Hey, don’t react like that! You smell that burning? That’s you, destroying the grass and hedges in this place because you decided to go all-out with the flames -”

“I recall _you_ telling me not to bother throttling it,” Roy retorted. “I take your orders to heart, Lieutenant.”

“Only the ones you like.”

“That’s true.” Roy smiled. “Alphonse and Fullmetal. How do they look?”

“Well…” Riza craned her neck to see through the crowd. Her head bumped up against his. “Edward looks the same. His right arm is flesh again, not sure about the leg. The right arm is emaciated, and the left one is severely injured. But he’s up and kicking - oh, literally, there goes Ling.”

“Where’s Greed?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, we’re sure to find out,” Roy mused. “The snide little bastard. What about Alphonse?”

“He looks gaunt,” Riza observed. “Oh, Colonel, he’s skin and bones. I can see the way his ribs and cheekbones jut out from here. But he looks _just like_ Edward - the same skin, the same eyes and hair. But the hair is long, of course. And I think he’s the taller of the two.”

“Fullmetal is going to love that,” Roy laughed. “Though I suppose he won’t be complaining for the foreseeable future.”

“Let’s get him some milk as a congratulations present.”

Roy’s laugh. His _laugh_ \- it was doing things to her. Full and throaty and exhausted and real. His chest hummed next to hers and his breath rustled the hair near her ear. It was beautiful. His hand was running in soothing, mindless swipes between her shoulders, as if he was assuring himself she really was standing beside him.

“And what about you?” Roy finally asked.

“Me, Colonel?” Riza asked, surprised.

Roy looked down at her. His gaze was so direct that for a moment Riza wondered if he had regained his sight.

“Yes,” Roy said. “What do you look like, Lieutenant?”

“I’m pretty sure you know what I look like, sir,” Riza said.

“Maybe so,” Roy mused. His hand reached up to twine through her loose hair. “But I want to see you.”

His fingers trailed through her hair. He awkwardly removed his gloves and let them drop to the ground as he hesitantly reached toward her. His fingers were shaking as he found her shoulders, moved over her collarbones, up the barely-healed wound in her neck. Over her chin, her jaw, her cheeks and the arch of her cheekbones. Her eyelashes fluttered under his thumbs as he cradled her face.

Roy’s forehead brushed hers. His bangs tickled her skin. She could feel his nose against her cheek, his breath as it mingled with hers.

Riza wanted to remind him that there were other people there to see them. She wanted to jerk away, worried about Pride, about Wrath, about any of a million enemies finding them and using this against them, about Anti-Frat policies, but they had both nearly died and in reality Riza was pretty sure that if Roy pulled away she was going to actually die this time.

“There’s something you should know, Lieutenant,” Roy said.

“Oh?” Riza asked. Her heart was pounding somewhere in the back of her throat. She feared it might pull at the freshly-healed skin of her jugular. Her voice was breathy in a way that might have been embarrassing in any other situation. “And what’s that?”

“I’m going to kiss you in about five seconds.”

Riza didn’t let him count - she jolted forward, mouth meeting his in a searing, blazing kiss. Her hands went to his collar, fisting in the stiff wool of his uniform jacket. She tasted smoke and blood on his lips, and it should have been gross, and maybe it was a little, but mostly she was _so relieved_ that they had lived that she didn’t care.

Roy’s arms went to her waist, and in his eagerness he dipped her back, almost sweeping her off of her feet as her knees went weak. Riza’s thumbs cut tracks through the soot powdering his face, traced his jawline when they broke away at last.

For the first time in years, Riza felt like she could breathe in deeply. She felt _invincible._

~

Riza awoke in the hospital with no memory of how she had gotten there.

She tried to sit up and cried out in pain - or she would have, but her throat was dry and parched, so she only managed a weak gasp. Every muscle in her body felt bruised and heavy. Slowly, she turned her head. The skin at her neck pulled taut and uncomfortable, like it was about to come apart - _oh, right._

“Col -” She rasped. “Col...nel…”

“Hey, there,” said a soft woman’s voice. Riza blinked towards the noise. Her vision came into focus, and she saw Rebecca Catalina hovering over her. Miraculously, she appeared unhurt. Rebecca helped her sit up with one hand and raised a glass of water to Riza’s lips. “Drink this, and try again.”

Riza obeyed. Her throat was sore and scratchy. Rebecca added, “And Mustang is fine. Well, as fine as can be. He’s resting.”

“Where?” Riza asked weakly.

Rebecca chuckled. “So like you two, worrying about everyone else before yourselves. He was the same way when you were out. Don’t worry, he’s right here.”

Riza looked across the hospital room. She immediately recognized the bland white room and ugly color scheme of a military hospital. Roy was sleeping in the one other bed in the room, his hair tousled but face placid for the first time in nearly a year. He looked so much younger without the lines around his eyes or his forehead.

_Wait._ Riza suddenly realized their position. Her mind filled with threats and protocol and gossip and court marshals and discharges. “Wait. Why…?”

“Why are you two sharing?” Rebecca asked, arching one eyebrow imperiously. “Because literally everyone knows that you two would be miserable to take care of and only worry about the other if you weren’t in sight of each other. Also, all everybody is talking about is you two macking on each other after the final fight.”

“And not...the soul-stealing god?” Riza asked, smiling weakly. “Or...the Elrics?”

“Well, that too,” Rebecca conceded. “Okay, _most_ people are talking about that instead of you two. Most people are just collecting on bets.”

“Bets?”

“You two are the worst-kept ‘secret’ of Central, love,” Rebecca said.

“We’re not together,” Riza said. “Really.”

Rebecca tilted her head. “So you two did some real big romantic gestures, defied death about a dozen times, and made out like teenagers, and you’re telling me you’re still actually _not_ together?”

“No. We’re not.”

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And it means you owe me a thousand cenz, Catalina. Cough up,” came the commanding voice of Major General Olivier Armstrong as she sauntered through the door.

_“General,”_ Riza observed, aghast. The Major General’s right arm was in a sling, her beautiful face a mess of red-and-purple bruises. As she walked into the room, Riza saw that she favored her left leg. As soon as she could, she sat in the visitor’s chair beside Riza’s bed. It seemed even that much movement had robbed her of her considerable stamina. Her good hand went to cradle her side.

“Forgive me for not standing,” Olivier said, sounding like she didn’t give a damn if she was forgiven or not. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“I imagine,” Riza said. “I’m told you and Major Armstrong defeated Sloth.”

Olivier’s nostrils flared. “Perhaps...my brother wasn’t as useless as I thought.”

Riza raised her eyebrows. “So he saved your life...three times?”

“I had it perfectly under control!” Olivier snapped. Behind her, Roy turned a little in his sleep, but after a moment his face smoothed back into rest. She glanced at him dispassionately and glanced back at Riza. “Thanks for the cenz, Lieutenant.”

“I’m trying not to be offended,” Riza said. She sipped more water. “What’s happening outside?”

Olivier’s lip curled. “Grumman’s interim Fuhrer, though he’ll probably make it official soon, the wily old bastard. The official story is that our group became aware of a military experiment that would have harmed a great deal of Amestrian citizens, and we stopped it.”

“That’s not even a lie,” Riza said, surprised. Breda really had done well coming up with their cover story.

“No, it’s not,” Olivier said, looking irritated. “Promotions are coming down the pipe for all of us. As are awards and accolades and all that shit. I can't wait to get back to Briggs.”

“You're not going to stay?” Rebecca asked.

Olivier snorted. “I’ve been gone long enough. Alex can handle the family affairs for me. It’s too much work.”

Riza bit back a smile. She could imagine Armstrong’s effusive tears if he heard his sister speak so warmly of him. “What are our losses?”

Olivier’s face shadowed. Rebecca answered, “Not nearly as many as we feared. Some folks in Mustang’s unit, and a lot of Central soldiers, but our core group came through surprisingly unscathed. Bumps and bruises and some broken bones, though - Fuery snapped his ankle when a grenade went off, and Breda had some near-misses and took a bullet to the arm. Maria Ross saved Denny Brosh from getting shot when Central soldiers stormed the radio station. I think they’re still fucking in a closet somewhere.”

“Gross. Good for them,” Riza said. “Did you talk to Havoc?”

“Next I see him,” Rebecca promised. “Or, more accurately, when he gets here. The minute he heard we succeeded he bought a train ticket. He’ll be in tonight.”

Olivier’s gaze was still distant. Riza reached forward to tap her fingers over the back of her hand. She did not need Olivier to tell her what happened. “I’m sorry. Your husband?”

Olivier huffed out a breath through her nose. “No, luckily. But he was my best friend. The first friend I made when I joined the military.”

She allowed Riza to squeeze her hand and Rebecca to wrap an arm over her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Olivier shook herself from her fugue. “I’m impressed, Lieutenant. Not many people can have their throat slit and live to tell the tale.”

“I got lucky,” Riza said. “Princess Mei from Xing saved me at the last minute. She knows alkahestry.”

“I’m glad she did,” Olivier said. She winced, her hand returning to her side. She glared at Rebecca. “How is it _you’re_ not injured?”

“Because I don’t throw myself into the middle of every fight like I have a death wish. I hit from afar,” Rebecca said. She took Riza’s empty cup and set it on the bedside table. Riza wanted to teasingly protest that she wasn’t an invalid, but she knew Rebecca needed to feel useful in moments like these. So she let Rebecca fuss over her, filling her cup and smoothing her sheets and holding her hand. Already Riza could feel exhaustion pulling her under again.

“Sorry,” she said, yawning. “I’m just so…”

“Anemic?” Olivier offered. Riza snorted.

“That’s a word.”

“Well, we’ll leave you to it,” Rebecca said. “Havoc should be arriving in a few hours, and Breda and Fuery will want to see him and know how you’re doing. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

“I snuck out against medical advice,” Olivier said bluntly. She rose to her feet. This time, she actually made a noise when she stood. Her face paled and she swayed, catching herself on the back of her chair.

“Should you be walking, Olivier?” Riza asked.

“I’m not a coward.”

Riza laughed softly just as there was a knock on the door. Softly so as not to rouse the Colonel, she said, “Come in.”

The door opened. To Riza’s surprise, a familiar man appeared, white hair tied back and red eyes for once uncovered by his sunglasses.

“Major Miles,” Riza said. “This is unexpected. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the General,” Miles said. He turned to Olivier. “You know your brother is tearing the hospital apart looking for you, right?”

“If he didn’t think to look here, it’s not my fault he’s an idiot,” Olivier said. Though the words were harsh, there was an undertone there Riza had never heard before. It reminded her of the soft blue of thawing ice.

Major Miles laughed quietly and offered an elbow. Olivier waved him off irritably.

“I’m fine, Major. It’s a scratch and a couple of bumps. No need for the men to see me treated as an invalid,” she said.

“It is considerably _more_ than that,” Major Miles retorted. His tone was polite, but Riza heard the unsheathed steel in his voice. “You have a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, three _cracked_ ribs, a twisted knee, and you _probably_ have a concussion, if the rimming around your eyes and your light sensitivity is any indication. So.” He reached into his pocket and removed his sunglasses. Before she could protest, he gently slipped them onto her face, shielding her eyes and settling them on her nose. He offered his elbow again. In a softer voice, plaintive, speaking as though there was no one else in the room, he murmured, “Olivier.”

Riza’s mouth fell open. Rebecca, on her same wavelength, took this opportunity to discreetly slap Riza’s arm several times.

Olivier accepted Major Miles’s arm and turned to glare at them. She warned, “If you share _anything -”_

“What’s there to share?” Riza asked. “Just a general being assisted by her adjutant. Nothing interesting there.”

Major Miles and Olivier exchanged looks. Olivier broke the eye contact first, looking back at the other two.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Then she stood to attention, saluting with her free hand. In her normal tone, she said, “Well done, ladies. Take care.”

They left, and Riza turned to Rebecca.

“That little hypocrite.”

Rebecca laughed. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll go at you with her sword.”

“Then the scars will match,” Riza said. She lay back on the pillows and let Rebecca lean down to peck her on the forehead, smoothing out her hair.

“I’m glad you made it,” Rebecca said softly.

“I’m glad you made it, too,” Riza echoed, and sleep claimed her once again.

~

“Lieutenant?”

Riza snapped awake. It took her a few moments for her eyes to adjust in the darkness of the room. The lights were off, but whoever had last been in to check on them had forgotten to close the curtains. The midnight moon lit the room in a silvery glow, illuminating the Colonel’s bed.

_The Colonel._ They kept missing each other in their bouts of exhaustion-and-injury induced sleep, so this was the first time since they had gotten into the hospital two days ago that she saw him awake. He was sitting up, sightless eyes wide and darting around the room. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts.

“Lieutenant?” He called. He sounded so young and scared, calling out to her like that. _“Riza?”_

Silent as the night, Riza slipped from her bed. The movement left her dizzy from the lingering blood loss, her vision briefly flickering out, but she found her footing and approached the Colonel’s bed.

“Colonel,” she said softly. She settled her weight on the edge of the bed, slowly so as not to startle him. She could see his pulse racing in the fluttering vein in his neck. She reached for his hands, skating her fingertips over the back of his bandaged hands where they were fisted against the blankets. Immediately he flipped them over, locking his fingers with hers and holding tight.

“Riz - Lieutenant,” he corrected, his voice shaking. The sound was prayer and relief and anguish all at once. He swallowed. “I’m sorry to bother you, I - I just -”

“It’s okay,” Riza assured him. She recognized the signs of these panic attacks and night terrors. They were the Colonel’s constant companions in the weeks after they returned from Ishval. Where Riza went cold, quiet, and distant, his mind spiraled away into long-buried fear and anxiety that burst out of him when he could no longer energy to contain it.

She untangled one hand from his and pulled him into her, letting him press his face into her shoulder. She ran her hand through his hair and down his back as she counted breaths with him. His pulse fluttered like a hummingbird’s under fingers. His tears left damp spots on her hospital dressing gown. Riza’s eyes stung with her own sympathetic tears, but she swallowed them down.

At last, the Colonel calmed. He breathed in once and released it. His breath was warm as it fanned across her collarbones and through the thin material of the shirt. He did not move, and Riza did not stop her slow strokes through his hair. He smelled off, she noticed, the hospital disinfectant muting the omnipresent scents of smoke and spiced cologne.

“Want to talk about it?” Riza asked.

“You know what I saw,” he said. His hand tightened in hers.

Riza nodded. “Yes. I do.”

Roy hummed softly. She felt the way his chest vibrated with the sound. Finally he said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Riza laughed. “I said I’d follow you into hell. I just fulfilled my promise.”

“You did far more than that,” Roy said. He pulled back. He kept his eyes closed to hide his blindness from her, as if she would recoil from the reminder of what he survived. “You saved me. Again. You’ve saved me more times than I can count.”

_“I_ counted,” Riza joked weakly. Roy laughed. The expression on his face in the silver moonlight made him look ethereally beautiful. Before she could stop herself, she reached up with her free hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. She marveled at the warmth of his skin, the stubble that rasped at her fingers. He pressed his cheek into her hand, ducking to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

Riza couldn’t breathe. Roy laughed to himself at some inside joke. “I wish I could see you. I’d know if I’m really mucking this all up.”

“You do see me,” Riza said. There was a lump in her throat, a final stopper on a decade of pent-up longing finally demanding to be acknowledged and expressed and heard. “You don’t need sight to do that. You’ve always seen me.”

When she was a young girl living alone with an absentee father and the ghost of her mother; when she was death from above in Ishval; when she was the shattered husk of herself, her back burned black after the war; when he worked with her every day, year after year, building something better; when she was bleeding out and he refused to let her go. He looked at her and saw her good, bad, and ugly, her dreams and hopes and goals.

“Riza.” He said her name reverently, like it was a precious gift. “Riza, you must know...you know how much I…?”

His voice faltered, overcome with emotion. Riza smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.

“I do now.”

His hands reached up to cradle her face. Awestruck, he said, “I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t,” Riza said. “And I’m not going anywhere, Roy.”

His lips found hers. This kiss was as different from their first as it could be - gone was the passionate, intense drive for _more_ because they thought it would be their last and only. It was slow, gentle, pulling apart only to meet again, and again, and again. It was like a lazy Sunday morning, sunlight streaming in through the curtains; it was like coming home.

Riza ran her fingers through his hair, over his cheeks, down his arms and back. He laughed against her mouth.

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

“Don’t call me that when we’re kissing,” Riza ordered. “It gets the lines crossed. I can’t have you getting me hot and bothered at work because you use my title in the bedroom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Roy said. His lips moved from hers, tracing the curve of her jaw and following it to her ear. “Is that better?”

“I’ll allow it,” Riza said, trying not to sound as breathless as she was. Heat was coalescing in her stomach, shivers skating down her spine when he laughed into her ear.

“What else will you allow me?” He nipped at her earlobe, traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, laved at the sensitive hollow just under her ear when she arched her back. “I’m _so_ curious.”

_“So_ much,” Riza said. She swallowed. “But I am still missing some three liters of blood, so I am _going_ to pass out if we do any more.”

“That would do wonders for my ego.” But Roy pulled back, giving her space as he grinned smugly.

“Shut up,” Riza gasped as Roy returned his attention to her neck, switching to the other side now.

“If you like,” he said. “I can think of other things I’d rather do with my mouth, but I’m waiting until we’re out of the hospital to get that started.”

“Roy -”

“I’m already used to _that,”_ Roy said. His teeth nipped along her neck, careful not to leave bruises. Riza wasn’t sure if she wanted him to carry on with his teasing, feather-light kisses or if she wanted to push the boundaries of that impeccable control. “You know, I was upset about not being able to see you? And I still am. But this is…” He moved down, following the line of her throat to her collarbones with the tip of his tongue. “I can work with this. I can imagine how bright your eyes are. And how flushed you are. I can _hear_ you panting into my ear. And I can focus _much_ better on your skin like this.” His hands, emboldened by the way he was reducing Riza to putty, skimmed under her shirt to settle on her hips.

“Okay,” Riza said. “This is bullshit.”

She pushed him from her neck, nudging him farther back on the bed. Doubt flashed momentarily in his face from the loss of contact, but before he could do more, Riza pulled herself fully into the bed, slinging a leg over his hips so she could straddle him. Roy was laughing warmly when she caught his jaw and angled him up so she could claim him in a kiss.

The first times they kissed, Roy had had the advantage of surprise and an audience. But now Riza had the advantage of height and solitude and knowing _exactly_ what she wanted to do to him. His smug smirk faded into something that could only be called a _moan,_ reverberating from his throat when she tugged at his lip with her teeth and plunged her tongue into his mouth. It was a fierce, possessive kiss, her hands roaming through his hair and holding him in place when she broke away to suck at his pulse point. He was hard and panting beneath her, boneless and helpless to do more than float along in the crashing river of desire she was unleashing on him. He pushed his hips experimentally up into hers, and Riza momentarily lost her rhythm in the kiss.

“Again,” she panted into his mouth, shaping the word against his lips like she refused to pull away even that much, “Again, do that again -”

He obliged her. He was _so good,_ hands tracing over her back under her shirt (avoiding her breasts, leaving something for next time, as if they had both agreed that they needed to build up to sex in steps or else they would burst into flame), answering her pressing, needy kisses with his own, his hips catching her clit at just the right angle and pressure, the friction _delicious,_ and she was going to come on this hospital bed if he kept that up, please, _please -_

Abruptly, her vision cut out. She tumbled forward, Roy’s strong arms catching her against his chest.

“Riza?” He cried. He moved to the side to let Riza lay beside him, where she took a few moments to catch her breath.

“Dammit,” she swore. Now that she took a moment to breathe, her head was spinning, and no longer in the fun way. Her stomach rolled like she was going to be sick, and she stole some of Roy’s water from the bedside table.

“Too good?” Roy asked innocently.

“Shut up,” Riza said.

“Fine,” Roy agreed. He was grinning down at her now and he patted the bed, fumbling around until he found her free hand to clutch. “Only if you stay.”

“The nurses will love that.”

“Probably,” Roy said. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back of her palm. “Do you want to?”

Riza turned to glare at him, only to remember he couldn't see it. She deadpanned, “I’ll make out with you, but I draw the line at sharing a bed with you.”

“Alright.” He pushed her out of the bed. Riza caught herself on the edge, laughing. She slid under the sheets, which were wam from his skin. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, snuggling her head into his shoulder. Roy’s right hand reached up to cover hers, thumb tracing the back of her hand. She watched in wonder, amazed at her ability to touch and receive.

She dozed off beside him, and for the first time in months she felt safe enough to dream.

~

The nurse indeed had a giggle at their expense when she walked in the next morning to find the Lieutenant and Colonel cuddled up together on his bed. According to Rebecca, who came by around ten o’clock that morning, news was already spreading among the ranks that the Flame Alchemist and the Hawk’s Eye were official. To Riza’s surprise, the overall consensus seemed to be something along the lines of, “oh, they weren't before?” and a shrug as folks went about their day.

“If this had come out _before_ everything, it might have been news,” Rebecca said as she sipped on her coffee. “By ‘before,’ I mean five years ago before your skills were as well-respected, and also before the entirety of high command was killed off. But we have real problems now. They’re not going to court-martial the two leaders of the nation-saving coup.”

“Huh,” Riza said. That...surprisingly simplified things. She met Roy’s gaze and she wondered if his mind was also blown by this unexpected side effect of their efforts. It felt like they were getting off too easy.

“Now, the goal is just to gauge the damage and work out - officially - what happened,” Breda said. “Optics have been huge in this. We did wonders shaping the narrative and getting public opinion on our side by working with Mrs. Bradley and sharing live updates over the public radio.”

“It’s all because of you and Fuery,” Roy praised them, smiling in their direction.

“What’s up next, Colonel?” Havoc asked. He scratched his beard. It looked surprisingly nice, now that he made it past the patchy stage.

Roy grinned and looked in Riza’s direction. “We move on to phase two: Ishvalan reconstruction.”

“No more insane suicidal plans?” Edward asked. His arm was still in a sling from his recent surgery to remove the last of the bolts from his arm. With one arm at full-strength and the other near-skeletal, he looked oddly off-balance.

Roy grimaced as everyone else expressed confusion, concern, or, in Rebecca’s case, “you sad, weird man.” Riza laughed softly. “Three hundred and thirty degrees, twelve feet, Roy.”

“Bang,” Roy said, snapping his bare finger and pointing it perfectly at Edward’s face.

“Roy?” Edward repeated.

“How’d I do, Riza?”

_“Riza?”_ Edward squawked. He looked between them. “Fuckin’ finally!”

“Perfectly. Want your gloves?” Riza asked over Edward’s loud protests.

“I think I’ll hold off,” Roy said. He finally turned his attention to Edward. “How is Alphonse, Fullmetal?”

Edward’s wrath faded like it had been snuffed like a candle. “He’s okay. He sleeps a lot. He can’t eat solids yet, so he’s been receiving his nutrition and hydration through IV. It’s going to be a while before he can eat properly again, and right now we’re waiting for him to put on enough weight to start physical therapy for his muscles. It’ll be a long road back. But he got a haircut, so he’s been excited about that.”

“That’s wonderful, Edward,” Riza said. “May I visit next time he’s awake?”

“He’d love that, Lieutenant,” Edward said.

“Is he taller than you, Fullmetal?” Roy asked snidely.

“Eat shit, Colonel Dumbfuck.”

Rebecca exchanged glances with Riza. Unimpressed, she said, “This is what you’re working with?”

“They’re especially well-behaved today,” Riza replied. Rebecca giggled into her hand. Her other hand was close beside Havoc’s, their pinkies locked. Riza met Breda’s eye and he smirked.

“How can we help you, Colonel?” Breda asked. “With reconstruction.”

“For reconstruction, we need to talk reparations,” Roy explained. “And with reparations, we need cultural competence. Ishvalan religion, history, cultural practices, infrastructure, language. Go to the library, and bring back as many books as you can carry about Ishvalan history and religion. We’ll start there.”

“How do you plan to…?” Breda started before he trailed off, looking awkward. Roy grinned widely.

“Why, you’ll read it to me, of course. I've missed your dulcet tones.”

“I’ll need to be transferred back to you first,” Breda said. “And Fuery, and Fulman, and Hawkeye.”

“The paperwork is already in the works,” Riza said.

“Alright, then!” Breda said, grinning. He stood up, wiping his hands on his legs and made his way to the door. “I’ll take my third-wheeling happy ass down to the Central Library and see if I come back engaged after lunch.”

“Insubordination!” Roy called after him.

“You missed me!” Breda shouted back.

“I did,” Roy admitted quietly. Riza studied him, his whisper-soft smile and the muscles in his arms in his hospital shirt. Her lungs felt too big for her chest when she sighed and turned her attention back to Edward.

“Can I walk back to your room with you, Edward?” she asked. “I’m going a bit stir-crazy from sitting around.”

“Sure, Lieutenant,” Edward said. To her surprise, he offered his good arm for support and allowed Riza to lean on him as she found her balance. He looked back at Roy. “We’ll be back soon, Colonel Buttface.”

“Good one, Fullmetal,” Roy deadpanned. Edward grit his teeth and stared at the ground as he escorted Riza out of the room and left the Colonel to spend time with Rebecca and Havoc.

“You’re the best thing about him, Lieutenant,” Edward grumbled to Riza as he led her down the hallway. Riza couldn't help but chuckle at that.

“I think he would agree.” She peered out the windows as they walked. In the distance she could see the ruined, crumbling husk of Central Command. “Have you spoken to Winry?”

Edward’s neck and ears went scarlet. “I called her to check in. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Will she come out to Central?” Riza asked.

“She wants to,” Edward mumbled. “But she’s busy with her patients. Also, if she comes here she’ll want to stay until Al’s well enough to travel. She can’t afford to take all that time away from her work. I told her to wait until Al is better and we’ll come home to her.”

“‘Come home to her,’ hm?” Riza repeated. Edward’s flush went from his neck to the top of his head and almost out his ears. “So I was right.”

“You’re never wrong,” Edward said. Riza laughed.

“You’re learning.”

Edward showed her into a room identical to the one she shared with Roy. One bed was abandoned, the sheets rumpled and tossed aside. The other held a boy who shared Edward’s tan skin and golden hair. His cheeks protruded just as sharply as they had on the Promised Day, and Riza could still faintly see the outlines of his hips and ribs through the fabric. Riza pulled away from Edward and carefully took one of the spare blankets at the edge of his bed and gently smoothed it over Alphonse’s body, careful not to move either of his two arms that were out. Both bore IV drips: one of nutrients, one of the rehydration fluids. But he already looked better than when he first came back through the gate: his face had lost its pallor, his lips were no longer chapped, his nails clipped and hair cut.

Alphonse stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering. Riza sat on the bed near his hip and gently brushed the hair back from his head. “Mother?”

He sounded so young, so _hopeful._ The single word pierced Riza’s heart.

“No, Alphonse,” she said gently. “It’s the Lieutenant.”

Alphonse blinked up at her, the world coming into focus. After an initial flicker of disappointment, his lips cracked into a beautifully warm smile. “Lieutenant,” he greeted. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad you have your body back,” Riza told him. “How does it feel?”

Alphonse thought about that for a few moments. “Heavy. I couldn’t feel the armor. So I’m used to...weightlessness. Cold.” He smiled again. “I missed even being...uncomfortable.”

Edward pulled up in a chair. “Can I do anything, Al?”

Alphonse turned his head to beam at his brother. It looked like sunlight was streaming from his eyes when he said, “I’m okay, brother. When I said I wanted my body back, I wanted all of it. Can’t enjoy the warm without the cold. Or the food without the hunger.”

His thin hand reached out for his brother’s. Edward immediately clasped his hand in both of his. His face was open and vulnerable and happy in a way Riza had never seen it. She had never seen these two boys happy and whole before. She dabbed at her eyes, overwhelmed with the joy of seeing them alive and together again.

“You alright, Lieutenant?” Edward asked.

“Just happy,” Riza said. “Just tired.”

Alphonse nodded, understanding. “Now we can rest. How amazing is that?”

~

A week passed. Riza grew stronger by the day, bolstered by consecutive good nights of sleep and her body finally recovering from the stress she had put it through. The stitches in her neck and shoulder came out on the fourth day. She spent her mornings with Roy, reading and researching Ishvalan culture and history with him. She spent her afternoons catching up on paperwork and speaking with Rebecca, Breda, Fuery, and Armstrong about their next steps. She bid farewell to Olivier and Miles as they returned to Fort Briggs. She met with Grumman for what was supposed to be a brief meeting that became three hours when he revealed that he was her maternal grandfather. Since then, every other day they met in the afternoon for tea and chess to catch up for lost time. Riza also got her exercise by walking to the Elrics’ room to see how Alphonse was recovering.

Her nights were spent in Roy’s bed, or his in hers. This, too, was catching up on lost time - learning the shape of his lips, the lines of his palms, the rhythm of his heart under her ear. They had been together for so long she forgot that there could still be things to learn about him. Each discovery was a gift, a wonder - he was ticklish along his hips, he had a scar from a street fight on his bicep, he bruised like a peach (this was a _delightful_ discovery, and Riza could not _wait_ to capitalize on this).

And she still had so much more to learn, miles of skin to explore and years to spend doing it. She was counting down the days until they got out of this hospital.

Riza had thought that they were putting their world back into a semblance of order. Their squad was back together again, with the losses of Fulman and Havoc. Phase Two of their plan was underway, and their team was making strides with their working knowledge of Ishvalan language and customs and preparing to reach out to the Interim Fuhrer to allow their team to lead the Amestrian diplomatic team to improve Ishvalan relations. Her future and Roy’s seemed settled at last: together, intertwined, as partners in work and, clearer and more real by the day, partners in life.

But those plans were turned on their head when their hospital door opened one day and Maria Ross entered, escorting a perpetually irritated Dr. Knox and a scarred Dr. Marcoh. They remained silent as Mustang and Breda argued over the quiz on Ishvalan agriculture Breda was administering (“No, sir, it’s called _dual cropping,_ not _double cropping.”_ “Same difference, Breda!” “It’s not and you know it. We’ll go through the chapter again.”).

Dr. Knox laughed. “Good to see the blindness hasn’t knocked you completely on your ass, Mustang.”

Roy paused, head tilting in consideration, before he grinned. “Welcome, Dr. Knox. I’d know your dulcet tones and charming bedside manner anywhere.”

“How’s recovery?” Dr. Knox asked as he stepped further into the room.

Roy waved a hand generally at his surroundings. “Horrible, as you can see. Insubordination abounds. I can barely get any rest from these pests.”

“I’m sure,” Dr. Knox said. He narrowed his eyes, no doubt studying the fading red mark that peeked out from under his collar. He scoffed to himself but didn’t comment more.

“I meant your eyes, kid,” Dr. Knox said.

“Ah,” Roy said. Thoughtfully, he put a hand over his sightless eyes. “I envisioned a better future, and this is the price I paid.”

“Hm,” Dr. Knox grumbled. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Okay might be too strong a word,” Roy said. “But I’ve made my peace with it. What matters now is moving forward.”

“These are books about Ishvalan culture,” Dr. Marcoh observed. “History, religion, language. You truly are serious about making amends with the Ishvalans.”

“Oh, hello, Dr. Marcoh,” Roy greeted before adding, “I am. “With my team, of course. The people of Ishval have borne our scorn and suffered at our hands long enough. I want to use my power in this military to give them the reparations they deserve. We need to pull our troops from their occupied lands and return the Holy Land to the followers of Ishvala. Rebuild their roads, schools, hospitals, homes. We cannot move forward as a nation without amending for the past.”

“They’ve already done more than enough for us,” Fuery said. “Without Scar and his countrymen, we couldn’t have succeeded on the Promised Day.”

“We can’t change the past, or completely absolve our sins,” Riza added. “But we can do this much. So we’re going to.”

“It’s quite literally the least we can do,” Breda said. “Colonel, tell me more about the Ishvalan irrigation systems.”

Roy went into a long spiel about engineering that was mostly right until Dr. Knox interrupted them by laughing.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Crazy, optimistic kids. They’re already way ahead of us old geezers, Marcoh.”

“I heard,” Dr. Marcoh said dryly. He approached Roy’s bed, digging into his pocket with a hand. Riza studied him carefully, looking for a weapon, but when she saw what he held her mouth fell open. The others all looked on, awestruck, at the glowing red rock the doctor lifted in his fingers. Dr. Marcoh continued, “Colonel Mustang, I have with me here a philosopher’s stone. I believe it may restore your eyesight.”

Riza watched the emotions flash over Roy’s face: surprise, confusion, shock, hesitation, jubilation. The hesitance won out, it seemed, Roy recoiling from this _carte blanche._

“I made this,” Dr. Marcoh started, “with sacrificed Ishvalan lives. It may be presumptuous of me to ask this, but if your intentions are truly to restore Ishval to its people, and to help return it to its former glory...then I want to help you do that. Please, allow me to restore your eyesight.”

Roy looked thunderstruck. Riza could only imagine what he was feeling: he had only just finally accepted that their plans and lives needed to change as a result of his blindness. It in no way changed their goals, nor did it dampen their affection for one another. But it did mean they had to change their _methods_ by which they accomplished them. The one thing he truly regretted, Roy had said to her a few nights ago, mouth moving against her temple, was that he would never see her smile again.

But if Roy accepted…

“There are a lot of people who wouldn’t agree with this,” Roy said, smile wry. “And maybe they’d be right. But I will accept your offer. It will rejuvenate and remind me of the promise I made to follow this through. But first…” he grinned. “I have some friends I’d like you to meet.”

**xxvii.**

Roy was afraid to move.

Dr. Marcoh assured him that he could open his eyes. The fluorescents were off, the blinds shut and curtains drawn, filtering the light from outside in case of light sensitivity. He clutched Riza’s hand tightly in his as he slowly opened his eyes.

At first, all he got was vague impressions of shapes and colors. Which was already miraculous. But with every blink of his eyes, the world rapidly became clearer, the lines sharper and more focused. And in front of him was Riza.

She was _beaming_ at him. Roy could only stare at her, struck dumb and struggling to make sense of what he saw.

Beautiful. She was _beautiful._ Had she always been so angelic, so stunning? Her long blonde hair was down, flowing like a waterfall over a shoulder, almost glowing in the muted light from outside. She looked better-rested than in years, her eyes bright and clear. They were the color of amber, of coals glowing softly in the grate, of leaves at the height of autumn. Her lashes were long, a shade lighter than her hair. Her nose was dusted with freckles.

She smiled at him like she was as amazed at seeing him as he was at her. He drank her in like he was dying in a desert and she was an oasis.

“Thank you,” Roy breathed. He knew he was being rude to Dr. Marcoh, but he couldn't break his gaze away from her face. He almost feared that if he looked away, he would lose his sight all over again. “I will follow through on my promise to you. I swear it.”

Dr. Marcoh chortled beside him. “I don’t doubt that, Colonel. Be well. I will see you in Ishval. You and I both have and amends to make.”

“I look forward to it,” Roy said. He didn’t even look away when Dr. Marcoh left the room.

Riza lifted an eyebrow at him. “Really, Roy? You didn’t even look at him. You’re staring at me like -”

Roy cut her off by surging forward, catching her lips in a kiss. It still boggled his mind that he could do this, could touch her and hold her and kiss her. That she wanted him to, that she liked it when he held her face in his hands and pressed his lips to her forehead, her temples, her eyelids, the point of her nose, the bandages at her neck, her chin, her lips.

“I love you,” he said when he pulled away for a breath. He kissed her again, awed at her response as she tilted her head and leaned into him. He ran his tongue over her lip and grinned smugly when she sighed against him. She whined softly when he broke away and he laughed at her wide-eyed embarrassment at her slip.

“I love you,” he repeated, amazed he could say it. “I love you, and we should move in together, and we should get another dog, and get married. What are your thoughts on kids?”

It hadn’t meant to all slip out like that. But Roy had spent years swallowing his feelings and not saying everything that he wanted to tell her. But this was what he wanted, and it was time to be honest with her. Brutally, intensely honest, but honest.

Riza blinked. Her lips were parted in surprise. They were a beautiful shade of pink, soft and plump. The color went well with the rapid flush that was spreading over her cheeks.

“We can start with moving in and the dog,” Riza replied at last.

Roy blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Riza said. “It’ll be cheaper rent and Hayate could use a friend.”

Roy rolled his eyes, mock-glaring at her. Riza ducked her head, her severe expression finally breaking. Her smile was so genuine it made his heart feel too big for his chest.

“As for everything else,” Riza said, leaning in to press her lips to his, “We can keep talking.”

Some time later, she abruptly broke away. “Oh,” she murmured, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, her lips deliciously red and well-kissed. “I love you, too.”

~

_“Ugh,”_ Riza moaned softly as the door swung open. Roy said nothing and only watched, utterly charmed, as Riza entered the cottage, set their takeout on the counter, dropped her suitcase on the wooden floors, and flopped face-first onto the bed. Wordlessly, he followed after her, shutting the door behind them and locking it. He flicked on the overhead lights, and the one-room cottage was bathed in warm light. On one end there was a furnished kitchen with a truly adorable breakfast nook for two; in the middle, a comfortable couch and chairs in front of the focal point of the room, a large fireplace; and in the back corner, just under a bay window that overlooked a backyard bursting with lilac trees, was the single bed. Riza hadn’t even bothered to take her shoes off before she snuggled into the soft yellow duvet.

“Tired?” Roy asked, making his way over to the bed. He set his bags down and sat beside her, taking the opportunity to admire the curve of her ass in her pants as she lay there. From the light smack she gave his leg, she felt his lingering gaze even if he didn’t say anything.

“Mmhmm,” Riza said. She rolled over, blonde hair mussed from the long train ride, and sat up. “I’m sorry. I think I only have dinner and a shower in me tonight.”

“I think I do, too,” Roy confessed. “But we have two weeks here until things ‘blow over,’ to use Grumman’s words.”

Riza smirked. Following their three-week stint in the hospital, Interim Fuhrer Grumman had called them in and told them that they were suspended (with pay, at least) for the duration of the official Central and Parliamentary investigation into their roles in the Promised Day. He also recommended that it was for the best if they lay low for the duration of the investigation, as the media was circling like sharks and voraciously hunting for a spin to their story. Grumman mentioned a beautiful area to the north, near the mountains, that rented out little cabins for a week at a time, and wouldn’t that be relaxing after what they had gone through? Hiking, camping, fishing, sunsets over the mountains, not a telephone for miles.

Roy had a cabin booked by the next morning.

Riza had laughed at his eagerness, and then cackled when Roy revealed that Grumman had long been alluding to what a good match he would make for the elderly Fuhrer’s granddaughter.

As much as Roy wanted to get a jump start on the two weeks of vigorous, passionate, amorous, tender lovemaking he had planned with his dearest and favorite Lieutenant, he rather agreed that they needed to wait. After their long day of travel, both of their recovering stamina was reduced to dregs. Roy’s temples felt tight with an impending headache, and he desperately wanted a shower.

“C’mon, Riza,” he said, gently tugging her arm up. She followed with minor protestations. “Dinner and a shower will do us both good.”

“Fine,” Riza agreed. They said nothing as they sat on the front porch eating their takeout Xingese. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh, watching the sunset behind the Briggs mountains and lazily batting away curious fireflies that floated too close.

Roy washed the dishes while Riza showered, and she leaned up to press a soft kiss to his mouth when they slipped past each other to trade places. She smelled of lilacs and fresh mountain water and, forever and always, gunpowder. He watched her back with avid admiration as she stepped away, studying the way her muscles flexed, following the way water droplets dripped down her skin to fall onto her yellow towel. Riza rolled her eyes fondly as she shut the door in his face in an unspoken order to _hurry up._

Rolling his eyes fondly, Roy showered quickly. He finally stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom ten minutes later, toweling the last of the water from his head.

“Riza -” he started, only to stop short in front of the bed.

Riza lay on the bed, dressed in a time-worn button-up sleep shirt and shorts that revealed the expanse of smooth skin and muscular legs. Her long hair shone like spun gold against the white pillows. Her hands were curled up inches from her soft lips, open slightly in sleep.

Roy had to put a hand to his mouth to stop any sound from spilling out. Emotions swelled from what felt like the depths of his soul, a hurricane of every emotion he had ever felt for her coalesced into this moment - awe, incredulity, respect, lust, pride, _love._ This love filled every part of him, head and heart and spirit - a love that wanted to give and hold and support and bolster her in everything she was and wanted to be.

Riza stirred, a soft sound escaping her lips. Sleepily, she blinked up at him from the bed. The cottage lights shone in her eyes like fireflies. “Roy? What’s wrong?”

Roy shook his head. “Nothing,” he croaked. “It’s just - you’re just -”

Brilliance. Divinity. Transcendence. Perfection. She was perfection incarnate.

“I love you,” Roy breathed, amazed and helpless to fight it and wondering why he ever wanted to try.

Riza sat up, her hair falling over her shoulder in a way that his fingers itched to touch. He sat down when she coaxed him to her, pressed his forehead to hers. Her hair was silk between his fingers, still damp from her shower. It left the back of her shirt damp and he pulled her into his chest as he lay them down. Together. In bed. In _their_ bed.

He kissed the scar on her shoulder, her neck, her temple, her lips. Once upon a time he felt guilty for even thinking her name. Now he was going to hold her like this, every night, for as long as she let him. “I love you, Riza.”

Riza kissed his jaw, and he knew she understood. “And I love you, Roy.”

The possibilities were limitless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!!!!! keep an eye out for a smutty little coda to this, _first._ it should be up sometime today or tomorrow. 
> 
> i've also made a spotify playlist for this story!! please give it a listen: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/50Gg2FkdGcTNFtP1uy3Odn?si=H6p-YpfeQZWg11c7ipe4vg
> 
> again, please feel free to hmu on my blog, notantherwritingblog.tumblr.com. 
> 
> forgive my shitty html i know nothing about computers
> 
> please review if you can!! thank you SO much again!!!


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